#it was a wet and dreary winter

[lesbiangallagher]

helluva boss has brought so much happiness into my life over the past month like i feel like the light in my eyes is sparkling and twinkling for the first time in a while. and i feel invigorated and motivated to take on life like the true fangirl i have always been. just HAPPY with all of the ideas my brain is coming up with. i feel so motivated and inspired to create and interact and yell about fizzarolli pussy size with my mutuals!!!!!!!!!!!!! YIPPIEEEEEE

[soft-bugs]

So excited for Halloween but not excited for what comes after 😭

[queers-gambit]

The Black Dread part one

prompt: after word is sent for Dragonseeds to raise up, you shockingly claim The Black Dread. knowing your stance would all but determine the war, both Alicent and Rhaenyra send emissaries to persuade your allegiance through means of marriage. when tragedy strikes, you fly to war. -> in this part - you claim Balerion and emissaries are sent.

pairing: Jacaerys 'Jace' Velaryon x female!Tyrell!reader pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!Tyrell!reader -> hair color specified reader -> technically Targaryen!reader -> ALL characters aged 18+

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

series masterlist: The Black Dread > > > next part, part two: read here

word count: 4.9k+

note: ALL characters are aged up - they are NOT minors

warnings: hair color specified reader but it's paramount to the story. Dance of the Dragons AU, Balerion lives AU - kinda heavy introduction. political manipulation, i guess no Baela, Rhaena or Alys romantic interests, ALL characters are aged 18 or older, Muses aren't in this part much, stolen Olenna Tyrell quote(s), Dylan Thomas quote.

though Balerion is not shown in the shows [HOTD or GOT], these are some of author's personal favorite fan art pieces: this this one, but maybe this color

Considering the climate, environment, elements, and location of each region with no true diverse distinction or transition between seasons, summers varied in each corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Notably, the mainland experienced vastly different summers in comparison to the constantly humid Westerosi islands.

This was expected.

Where the weather endured in King’s Landing is dry and stale - lacking cloud coverage, baking all forms of life under the unforgiving sun - Dorne was ideal: temperate, tropical, the temperature usually consistently comfortable.

Northwest of the continent, off the Westerlands coast in water of Ironman's Bay so dark, secrets remain hidden, summers on the ratified Iron Islands were cold due to the winds blowing from the North. The rocky region wet and slippery from rain; never humid, usually biting.

The Reach boasted pleasant summers; lush and green with fully bloomed gardens, perfectly balmy. The Stormlands lived up to its name and was plagued with frequent storms. These were usually warm rains - opposite the Iron Islands. The Crownland's annually hosted hordes of tourists at their ever popular summer attraction: temperate beaches. And why wouldn't they? The Crownlands's usually kept moderate temperatures and plenty of vast coastline to offer reprieve in the surf.

However, the only exception to sweltering, stereotypical climate that ransacks the Realm is the North - an expansive outlier. You see, in the North, summers are cold but winters are REALLY cold. From Bear Island to White Harbor, the dreary, overcast summer sky reflects on year-round, bright, pristine summer snow, making it glitter and blindingly glow. This results in the curation of a blue-grey filter naturally exclusive in the North.

However, tonight - You weren't ankle-deep in North summer snows. You weren't wheezing in King's Landing. You weren't vacationing in Dorne. You weren't sloshing through the Stormlands.

Tonight, you weren't on the mainland.

Tonight, you were on Dragonstone - ancestral home of your distant, estranged family.

Bullfrogs belted their croaky song, loud and incessant; as if trying to individually greet each twinkling star in the inky sky - the ever faithful audience; intrigued by this reckless and dangerous suicidal showdown you embarked on. Crickets chirped in a soprano choir; dotting around the maze of tide pools - cratered by the same porous, jagged, volcanic rock that defines the unpredictable, natural coastline. Frothing alto waves of dark navy, violent, salty sea brutally crashed against rock - the booming baseline of the frog's and cricket's private duet sang in perfect harmony.

All that was missing was a little red crab with a Jamaican accent encouraging you "kiss the girl".

Night had fallen. The winds were cold as a storm rumbled overhead. Rain fell sideways. Lightning streaked the skies.

You navigated through the dark - a slippery, dangerous feat.

Few windows of the castle gave a subtle, dim light; indicating the residents were more than likely turned in for the night. Still, despite the lack of patrolling guards and other witnesses, you remained in stealth mode. Only fools allowed themselves to feel cocky when their guards go down. When someone allowed their defenses to go down, mistakes are made, capture is imminent, the mission is a failure, and surrender to the enemy's mercy is forced.

Your presence on Dragonstone wasn't for romance - no girls (or boys) for you to kiss. This wasn't a social visit to recreationally mingle with the Velaryon Prince or Targaryen Princess Twins. You're not conducting research curriculum - no time to study flora, fauna, volcanic activity.

To the winged terrors, Dragonstone Island is a recognizable safe haven that promotes healing - the one place these miraculous beasts could relax, ease their defenses; be vulnerable with lowered guards. This sense of safety gives freedom away from the confines of Dragon Riders - simply allowed to be true, authentic, and animalistic.

Currently, a couple dragons sought refuge on the island, nesting, minding their own business; others sought rest, retirement, peaceful isolation. Several took advantage of the heat and loitered around the volcano, the Dragonmont.

They weren't just any dragons, some were rogue, wild; some released after captivity; all unclaimed, riderless. This tempted several persons to rely on arrogant luck and try their hand at harnessing the terrible beasties - but they never returned.

Summer days stretched long, giving limited time to move under the cover of darkness, and the nights progressively shortened each day leading up to the solstice. Your journey was miraculous, having never navigated open water before yet somehow arriving at Dragonstone after setting sail from King's Landing by yourself. Perhaps you had a hidden talent, a subconscious sailor mentality; maybe you were just lucky, or maybe your boiling emotions made you defiantly determined - running on pure spite to stay alive, unharmed, and without capsizing in an effort to complete your mission.

Most of the time, you relied more on logic than emotion, something that helped keep you balanced, grateful, rational. Leading with logic arguably "made" someone intelligent; solution oriented, stubborn, hardheaded, unwilling to compromise (a common foundation when leading with emotion).

Yet logic made you very black and white - no grey area. Logic is cut and dry. Logic is sometimes sophisticated. Logic is also stubborn. Logic abandoned empathy. Logic could be explained. Logic identified applicable reasonings and explanations. Logic is hard to argue against. Logic sustained battles of wit. Logic is sometimes discriminatory. Logic always tells the truth. Logic has limited loopholes.

Logic is fact driven, and when paired with your own rooted moral and religious beliefs, made you subconsciously judgmental.

There's a well-known proverb, quote, "it's not the destination, but the journey." Yet some philosophers think the destination is mundane, anticlimactic, boring, sometimes disappointing and unfulfilling while the journey is much more fulfilling. The journey is what's worth; an adventure, where development inflates, where a story worth telling lies.

Logic is the destination. Leading with emotion is the journey.

Leading with emotion develops thoughtful decisions. Emotions sharpen empathetic abilities. Emotions sometimes changes perspectives, broadens horizons. Emotions allow for differences in opinions. Emotions curates safety. Emotions heightens generosity. Emotions expands willingness to help. Emotions softens situations with compassion. Emotions often strides towards peace. Emotions structures harmony. Emotions accepts all. Emotions could be overwhelming. Emotions don't always have one, single, clear victor.

Leading with emotion makes you easily reactive, being why you made a conscious effort to engage logic; keeping yourself in check.

You often never lost your cool; always having a handle on things, but sometimes, it was a challenge. Emotions demand to be felt, and no matter how hard you train yourself and practice relying on logic, you were still human.

Both leading with logic and emotion made you passionate, sometimes synonymous with stubborn. Either way, you ended up here - on Dragonstone - slinking around in the dead of night as if a criminal on the run, trying to avoid the Rogue Prince's nefarious, outlandishly violent City Watch.

You were dedicated to the truth, hence your willingness to embark on this suicide mission. You know it's out there, becoming desperate to find it; never settling, fed the fuck up of mindless gossip the court whispered and hissed about. Enduring years of scrutiny and unfiltered rudeness made you confident, wanting, and energized to justify your claims, prove self-worth, assign relief, terminate turmoil, tension, and assumption.

Yeah, yeah, yeah - but what truth are you dedicated to? Your family's lineage and heritage, your birthrights, your position in society. Your contributing livelihood. They only thought you a young lady boasting the Tyrell surname - a broodmare to sell off. After Queen Rhaenyra proclaimed herself, you became incessant to prove you were so much more than a pretty fragile rose to be set in a vase.

Truth became your Eighth God; being a dedicated, loyal, trusting, worshipping follower. And the truth was, you're a Targaryen as much as a Tyrell, and by all means, had as much of a right to claim a dragon as any of the rest of them.

You refuse to take detours, cut corners, violate, or cheat to obtain your goal(s); arriving at your desired end result with integrity, completing your mission by barreling through obstacles with laser focus - like a predator stalking prey.

Boots slapped and clicked on wet rock, splashing in puddles, splattering mud up your legs to soak into your breeches. Heavy humidity - thick and muggy air - coated lungs and stuck in nostrils, being suffocatingly stuffy; breathing becoming difficult. You could physically feel the condensation in the air - hair adopting a mind of its own; beaded, clammy skin becoming uncomfortably sticky, palms slick with sweat. You missed the dry heat of the capital.

Dark hood of your cloak hid your vibrant hair; the material swishing, swirling airy fog low to the ground around your creeping form, creating an ominous energy. You half expected a ghost to appear at your flank.

The clanking of the night patrol's armor was heard first, alerting you to a diminishing window; sliding into the mouth of one of the dragon caves in time for the White Cloaks to stalk around the castle's perimeter walkway.

Even with thick rock cocooning your form, the rumbling of the nested dragon's slumber was heard; loose pebbles, dust and other debris showered from the cave ceiling. Despite the heat of the Dragonmont, you heard the slow echo of dripping water.

Your choice to come to Dragonstone, was it a logical decision? Or driven by emotions - fed up with the rumors, sneers, disrespect, critical judgement from everyone in King's Landing? ...yes.

Navigating a dragon lair was dangerous, but navigating a dragon lair with ZERO experience was an anticipated disaster. Surely, you must've lost your mind because no mentally stable person would dare step foot in this cave - let alone scale the depths in search of an ancient beast that could (and possibly wound) treat your charred body as a BBQ appetizer. With a gasp, you slipped on the rocks, hissing when the heels of your palms took the brunt end of impact and slit open; tiny pebbles sticking to your open flesh. You whimpered gently, jagged rocks digging into your knees as you cleared your hands and slowly found your feet.

Even with knowledge of your heritage, you hadn't grown around the scaly Targaryen counterparts like any and every other legitimate offspring. You were long divided from that side of your family, missing out on fascinating Valyrian traditional customs. It made you a slightly bitter.

No dragon egg in your crib. No hours-long practice in the Dragon Pit. No reptilian anatomy studies. No personalized leather saddle embellished with a three-headed dragon. No claim to ancestral privilege or birthright. No unique morality, nor holier than thou complex. No generational beast to inherit.

Skin free from the lingering, invasive, embedded stench of dragon hide.

You used to think learning Ancient Valyrian was a redundant waste of time, education, and resources. You were raised in the ancestral keep in the Reach's capital, Highgarden, under your father, Lord Tyrell, and his beloved wife - the Vanished Princess - which made this secret sleuthing harder to rationalize or explain, given no Targaryen ever lived in Highgarden. Never before were dragons hosted in The Reach, and therefor, a Dragon Pit was never erected.

So, you know how when you're a kid and see something at the store that you really want but your parent says no because you already have too much shit? They might've made their point by saying something, like, "Where do you think you're gonna put all that?"

Well, Highgarden is the toy box and you intend on bringing home one of those enormous stuffed animals won at a carnival / festival.

If anyone knew of this plan, they might've sent you to the medical institute the Citadel in Oldtown operates; involuntarily commit you to the structured research program that studies different mental and physical medical phenomenons.

Truth was, this wasn't even your idea. Your grandmother, who definitely either spent time in one of the Citadel's cells or should, encouraged you. Perhaps that should've been a red flag, but it was too late now, her words echoing in your mind ―

Be a dragon.

The gardens you walked through were in fragrant, full bloom; providing a sweet air to combat the foul words you admitted with your arm looped in your grandmother's. You paced evenly through the overgrown foliage, the bees buzzing to drown your words.

"Perhaps, something is wrong with me," you sulked, "because surely, it cannot be this difficult to find a match. It seems I need to lower my standards, I could not attract a decent man if I were covered in honey and he were a fly."

"Perhaps try covering yourself in shit, then," she advised with a knowing smirk.

"Grandmother."

"Well, it's curious, isn't it?" Celia asked.

"What is?"

"All your life, you've always been more Targaryen than Tyrell; fierce, loyal, impulsive, strong, enduring. Yet now, you return nothing more than a rose wilted from King's Landing's stench, moping about failed relations. Have you ever considered that simple men are incapable of supporting the love and marriage of a dragon?"

"Half blooded does not make me a dragon."

"No, but the spirit, wit, intelligence, spunk, ferocity, cunningness, and determination you display proves it." She paused your stroll, secluded canopy shroud by foliage to provide a moment of privacy.

"Not all would think so," you let your eyes roll.

"Who do you speak of?"

"Those who think I am lying about my own Targaryen parentage, citing the color of my hair as evidence. You would think I'm one of the Queen's sons, the way they whisper."

"Do not listen to busy mouths, sweet child, hair cannot be a sole indication of parentage. I know it's easy to cite, but not all descendants of Valyria have silver locks, and should anyone have anything to say, know they are merely bitter and jealous for your hair is the perfect blend of Tyrell auburn and Targaryen silver. A color that is hard to ignore."

"Yet it's not enough to prove myself to them, Grandmother."

Now Celia sounded determined but angry, "You are every bit Tyrell as you are Targaryen. While you might not appear to their biased eye, there's never been denial that you are made in your mother's fire. Pure blooded or not, you're a dragon, my sweet petal."

"So?"

"Oh, for the love of the Gods - so, be a dragon! Dragons do not fret because men don't blink twice at them, they eat those men! Don't beg for approval; maintain your dignity, instill a new opinion, demand respect! Prove your strength, skill, and capabilities - everything the courts would deliberately overlook. Prove everyone wrong, offer contribution to this war, become a valuable asset who would be foolish to send away. Establish your seat at the table and never let anyone talk down on you again," your grandmother snarled with passion. "There's more than one way to prove you have the blood of the dragon."

"Such as? What would you have me do?"

"I hear rumor there remains a host of unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone. The Queen's son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, has called for dragonseeds to try their hand - they need more dragonriders for their war. Claiming your birthright might be the fastest, easiest way to earn the Realm's approval; doubling as undisputed evidence of who you are."

"What a terrifying thought."

"But what a statement it would make," Celia's lips pulled in a smirk, wrinkles deeper, more prominent on sun-soaked, wrinkled skin. "Tyrells might be flowery, we might sigil a rose - but we are resilient and refuse to wilt; even in the heat of dragon fire. The Realm thinks Tyrells are only pretty faces; pretty flowers meant to be seen and never heard, whose sole purpose is to be left on display. Preconceived as uselessly inexperienced during wartimes; criminally green, pure, innocent - judgement that makes them shockingly unprepared for how deep our thorns prick." Both of Celia's hands grabbed yours, squeezing, advising, "Do not go quietly, my petal, make those who doubted you be haunted by their foolish choice to challenge the wrong woman. Let them seep in humiliation and regret their judgement. Allow your successful conquest to be the biggest 'fuck you' to prejudice, the final nail in any coffin of doubt. Toss your wilted rose of fear aside, petal, embrace the fire that burns in your veins; you are Lady Y/N Tyrell of Highgarden, daughter of The Forgotten Princess, and you will not go gentle into that good night. You will be a dragon."

You were ensuring passage by morning light, intent to deliver yourself to Dragonstone.

Parts of the cave glittered with unharvested gems; a lost collection of rarities nobody dared pursue out of fear of the ancient, terrible Valyrian beasties that dwell in those caves. The walls sweat from combined dragon and volcanic heat, tunnels jagged and uneven; zero holes, cracks, or slits the sun could leak through (if it were up); everything terribly dark. At least there was a scattered pile of preprepared torches to light the way. A permanent odor of limestone and fractioned corpses assaulted your sinuses, dried puddles of blood seeped into rock, the scurrying critters who used dragons as hosts echoed with a twinkling charm - the least menacing reminder that you were not alone.

Claimed dragon chambers varied in size; pitstops along the winding pathways that ended at the largest chamber - a dead end. While other chambers were large enough for sometimes several dragons, this final stop could only be described as a jarring, stomach churning, hauntingly pitched ebony abyss of incalculable depth that played tricks on the mind. An abyss. It was like you were staring Death in the face and anxiety was dredged forth from white hot fear.

With a flickering torch alight in a trembling hand, you slowly stalked down the chiseled causeway that ended several lengths into the expansive, bleak nothingness. Pitch black shadows danced; the air felt electric, seemingly vibrating - alive and judgmental.

The glaring cavern besmirched your family name, hauntingly reminding that your disinheritance resulted in your late dragon bloom. The ebony airy sea identifies and heightens fearful insecurity about your estranged family's rejection, their lack of interest and care for your side of the family stinging; their rejection of familial relationships. The darkness predicted your failure, inability, and humiliation.

The cavern challenged your confidence and determination, your staked ownership and proclaimed lineage; labeling your bravery, beliefs and ambition as arrogant. It sneered about your stupidity, weakness, fear, and anxiety; belittled applied effort and desired goals; questioned your true desires and needs; tested your loyalty.

The cavern rejects any and all attempts before you could even try; unraveling your logic, shunning your emotions; proclaims reactive decisions as immature and lacking control, crowning you as dangerously naïve.

The cavern mocked your desperately pathetic need for station and acceptance; revoking and nullifying public (and private) ladyship, dubbing you unladylike - which, in itself, was insulting to your womanhood. Why do men get all the exciting adventure, but when a woman tries, she's crucified for being irresponsible? Smooth ebony waves reflected your maddening, constant effort and want for acknowledged contributions.

To the naked eye, the cavern appeared uninhabited, assuming the habitat was abandoned. The silence was eery; air buzzing with alarm, deceiving humans that attempted to see through the waves of darkness.

To a "true" Targaryen, this was just a sheet of camouflage the fire breathers wield for their privacy.

No wonder the Red Sowing was so... Bloody and devastating.

A growl was heard, something gravely and deep, intimidating and impressive. You frozen, eyes wide as if it would give you night vision, torch flickering, hands starting to shake. Then you saw prominent movement, lungs stalling and heart hammering. Slowly, a large, scaly, stained snout emerged at a sail's pace.

The more the beast stepped into your sight, your mind could only scream one thing - was coming face to face with a dragon logical or emotional? Because whether logical or emotional, this was a dumb fucking idea there was no turning back from.

So, you steeled yourself in position, dewy sweat lining your forehead to soak your hairline.

112 years After Conquest, dragons flew to war at the behest of the Targaryen family over Rhaenyra and her half-brother's claim to Aegon the Conqueror's Iron Throne. Sister-wife, Queen Visenya, rode Vhagar - said to have been the smallest dragon with bronze hide, yet, as rumor had it, still large enough that a horse could ride down her gullet. Sister-wife, Queen Rhaenys, rode Meraxes - who was larger; big enough to swallow horses whole with silver scales and golden eyes.

Then, The Conqueror, King Aegon Targaryen I, rode Balerion - the fiercest and largest, who’s wingspan could shadow entire towns, swords-long teeth assisting his ability to swallow mammoths whole, and who’s scales, wings, and fire were pitch black. Balerion was called the Black Dread and was so powerful, he could melt steel, stone, and fuse sand into glass. He never lost a battle - against human or dragon.

Balerion was also the dragon responsible for the Burning of Harrenhal, largest castle in Westeros.

In the year 2 BC, Aegon began his Conquest and engaged King Harren Hoare the Black in his keep, Harrenhal, who refused the Conqueror and was met with Balerion’s flames. In fire so hot, it melts stone like candles, the entire House Hoare was extinguished when Harren and his sons perished in the largest tower - later named Kingspyre Tower - though it’s said they haunt the Wailing Tower.

Since then, of Aegon's Three Dragons, only Meraxes boasted a single rider, but to be fair, in 10 AC, during the First Dornish War, allegedly, both Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes met their demise. Vhagar knew Prince Baelon Targaryen, Lady Laena Velaryon, and Prince Aemond as riders. Balerion knew Maegor the Cruel, Princess Aerea, and King Viserys, who, in the year 94, retired The Black Dread - thinking the beast was nearing his end. The dragon outlived every single rider.

In the year 129, Viserys died and The Black Dread stared you in the eye; curating a vibrating rumble deep within his chest that made the darkness dance. It'd been decades since anyone dared face this terrible beastie, thinking he wasn't long for this world; the pair of you curious about the other, no moves made yet.

There was no backing down, there was no turning away. This is what you wanted, for Aegon the Conqueror's mount to see you as you are - worthy of your of blood. You refused to be told you did not deserve your lineage, the Targaryen name, you would not endure disrespect any longer! You would earn your place in this Godsforsaken family, earn station in this Godsforsaken world, or die trying...

That night, Balerion took to the skies again, doing several laps in the air, soaring over King's Landing to let the residents of the Realm know - he flew again.

Your father's family hailed from The Reach, specifically Highgarden; colorful, temperate, lush, bountiful, and abundant. Your family oversaw 75% of the country's sole wheat, barley, grain, and corn production, even germinating the country's most grand gardens - which decorated a rather generous estate.

Despite the vast, open lands, there had never been need for a dragonpit before, so, when you landed your mount, he was left exposed on the outskirts of the Keep. Considering he was the largest thing, you know, ever, Balerion seemed content out there - so, you didn't worry.

It was strange, however, to see anyone without white hair on dragonback. Even stranger to the Realm to learn of your accomplishment; adding fuel to several fires.

The Green King Aegon asked lazily, a hand waving in the air, "Who?"

His mother, Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower, reminded, "She is of Targaryen seed on her mother's side, but was raised under the Tyrells. She sits to inherit all of The Reach, she will be Lady of Highgarden - "

"Until," Grand Maester Orwyle interjected softly, "her young brother, the Young Lord Tyrell, comes of age."

Aegon waved their words off, complaining, "Yes, yes, but why do we caaaaare about some red headed bitch?"

See, where the Targaryens had trademark white locks, the Lannisters had golden strands. The Starks had deep umber brunette color hair, and while both the Tully's and Tyrell's erred more on the reddish side, the Tully's had darker overtones, like an auburn, and the Tyrell's had lighter, coppery-amber waves. North of the Wall, they say "kissed by fire".

"Because Lady Tyrell has laid successful claim to The Black Dread! To Balerion!" Alicent snapped, quickly adding the snarky punctuation, "Your Grace."

"Well, we have Vhagar - "

"With respect, Your Grace, Balerion could give a singular chomp to any living dragon as Vhagar did Arrax and it would prove fatal," Otto Hightower, the King's grandfather and Hand, quickly stepped in to save his daughter from losing her temper.

"Well, she doesn't even speak High Valyrian," Aegon scoffed, rolling his eyes; lip curled, slouched in his chair.

"Neither do you," Aemond quipped in his Father's Tongue.

Otto continued loudly to prevent Aegon's response, "With The Black Dread now officially out of retirement and in play, the only choice we have is risk facing him in open battle, or..." His eyes shifted to Alicent, pausing, sighing and revealing, "Send an emissary to negotiate terms of an alliance."

"Meaning...?" Aegon drawled.

"Meaning a marriage pact, Your Grace," Otto supplied sternly.

"With respect?" Larys Strong spoke up, "But the Crown is lacking in their eligible bachelors for such terms."

"Or perhaps, what of someone outside the family? Marry two strong allies of the Crowns? Alliances henceforth might not have to include Targaryen marriages," Jason Lannister threw in quickly, but every Small Council member denied him just as swift.

It was reminded, "There's Prince Daeron."

"Lady Tyrell is actually the same age as Prince Aemond, I do not think she is looking for a husband so many years younger than her."

"Didn't Prince Aemond already secure the Baratheons through a marriage alliance?"

"Technically," Otto agreed slowly, "but given the circumstances and turning of tides, Lord Borros can be treated with in other ways should we need to offer Aemond for Lady Tyrell's willing support."

"Rhaenyra will send terms, as well," Alicent reminded. "Lady Tyrell is Prince Jacaerys' age, she might consider breaking his engagement, too."

The Small Council continued their plotting. Prince Aemond remained silent. Nobody so much as threw him a glance.

When the Black Queen Rhaenyra was informed of your heroics and your identity was questioned, her uncle-husband, Daemon, informed, "Daughter of the Forgotten Princess."

And Rhaenys affirmed, "My sister's daughter... Do not mistake her lineage for guaranteed alliance; her mother and I are long estranged, she's lived in The Reach her whole life - she does not know us. Nor owes us any loyalty."

"Perhaps she could be persuaded," Corlys wondered. "The Lady Tyrell is unwed, is she not?"

"As far as accounts go, yes," his wife reported.

"Perhaps a marriage alliance?" Corlys glanced around the table.

"To whom would you propose?" Queen Rhaenyra asked, all sat around the Painted Table.

"If I may be so bold...?"

"Please."

"Given your marriage to Daemon and his daughter's are shared with our own daughter, Laena... Is there truly need for a marriage pact between the children?"

Rhaenyra cocked her head, "You mean to... Disengage my son from his intended, and engage him again...? Like a pawn in chess? My son, Heir to the Iron Throne, married to Lady Tyrell?"

"Why do you sound displeased by the prospect, Your Grace?" Corlys wondered. "I hear the Lady Tyrell is most beautiful, and we need the Tyrell's wealth like we need their dragon, Balerion. If used properly, he can melt castles alone, Your Grace; burn towns, extinguish entire bloodlines, torch this country, melt the bloody Wall. No living dragon rivals him in size, in ferocity, in age nor experience. He's been at rest for decades now... Something tells me there's a reason he's come out of his nest."

"An omen," Rhaenyra agreed, straightening her spine.

"Precisely - the portents are cast, Your Grace."

"Lord Corlys makes a point," Daemon chimed in, "if by marriage, we secure The Reach and take back the Iron Throne with little to no carnage. Should the Greens fight, not even Vhagar could stand against Balerion."

"Prince Jacaerys is a handsome match to offer," another lord agreed, "which should help sway Lady Tyrell to our side."

"Which also frees both Lady Baela and Rhaena for other pacts - if need be."

"But if we have had this thought, I promise so has Alicent," Rhaenyra stood from the table, staring at the triangle of King's Landing, Dragonstone, and Highgarden. "Who would they offer? Who do they have, unwed, unpromised?"

"Well," Rhaenys stood to meet her Queen, "if we had the thought of a marriage alliance, and the thought to break off one engagement in favor of another, who is to say the Greens would not consider the same?"

It was quiet, a shiver shooting down the Queen's spine. "Vhagar and Balerion are familiar with one another," she grit her teeth, "and Aemond is the False King's brother. He's an attractive match, too."

"I think it's worth making the Tyrell's an offer," Corlys sat back in his seat. "They will receive us both and decide their allegiance - just as the Baratheons did, just as the rest of the Realm has or must do as well."

"Let it be done - if Prince Jacaerys agrees," Rhaenyra nodded, looking to her son - wanting his consent and participation in his own fate. Jace proudly lifted his chin and puffed his chest, nodding while nobody noted the looks of near relief on Lady Baela and Rhaena's faces. In a moment, they had been engaged to Jace and Luke without their thought, input, nor consent. In another moment, they were single young women with the tantalizing prospect to marry outside the family.

"I consider Her Grace's offer an honor."

> > > next part, part two: read here

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

The Black Dread masterlist

i'm already writing it, but, poll for the end ―

[xiayannie]

𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 25𝐓𝐇 — 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 ღ

↳ xiao × fem! reader

he's your personal heater, who's always happy to warm you up

cw(s) : smut, grinding, riding, creampie, calls you his love, uses of the words; pussy, cunt, dick, cock | 𝐗𝐎𝐗𝐌𝐀𝐒 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

"xiao..."

"hm?" a small hum left his lips, his eyes dreary as they blinked away the drowsiness of the morning.

"it's so cold," you nuzzled closer to him in hopes of warming up, but to no avail. XIAO was now awake as he stared down at your visibly shaking frame. "want me to warm you up...?" he sighed as you nodded, before deattaching himself from you and crawling down under the blankets.

he pressed gentle and warm kisses down your skin before he spread your legs open enough for him to fit snugly between them.

XIAO made quick work of your panties, beginning to lick and prod his tongue at your entrance.

"h-hngh... ah~!" you covered your mouth as xiao slurped and lapped up your juices, bucking your hips into his face, your clit touching his nose as your breath hitched. your climax didn't take long as he soon had your legs shaking. "...m' cummminngg!" you slurred, gripping onto his hair tightly as you pushed his head even further into your cunt.

XIAO hummed, drinking up any of the last of your arousal before lifting his head up with a gentle smile. his lips glistened with your essence as he crawled back up to kiss you.

you melted into the kiss, already feeling warm, but you decided that you shouldn't be the only one feeling warm during this one particularly cold winter morning.

XIAO let out a soft "oh" of surprise when you flipped him under you, grinding back on his crotch. despite your sopping arousal, you were very much still drowsy due to the weather and comfort of the bed.

a small grin made its way to XIAO's lips as his hands gently guided your rutting hips. soft moans were heard in the room, as you both took the chance to appreciate the moment.

he halted his movement, sliding down his sweats to reveal his hard-on, which made a gentle slapping noise once it hit his stomach. XIAO held his cock in his hand, positioning it so that his blunt tip rubbed and teased against the wet folds of your pussy.

XIAO hissed, biting his lip gently as he slid in with ease, feeling the warm walls of your cunt envelope his length. you tried your best to raise your hips and bounce up and down on his cock, but you tired out easily, which left it up to XIAO to thrust up into your warmth.

"j-just like that... my love." XIAO sighed dreamily, hugging you intimately and closely to his chest. soft whimpers of his name left your lips as you melted into the pleasure and comfort of his presence, feeling happy that the two of you were connected as one.

XIAO's scent was earthy and almost sweet, but it seemed to turn even sweeter whenever the two of you were making love. his hair was messy, but his appearance made your stomach do circles because you knew that it was a sight for only you to see. on a day like this, he was busy whispering sweet nothings in your ears whilst he made a mess out of your dripping pussy.

your brain had turned into mush by the time you felt your impending release, murmuring a sweet and quick warning to XIAO about being "c-close... mmm, so close... x-xiao~!"

"it's okay... let yourself go for me." he let out a soft hum in reply, almost cooing softly to encourage you to cum for him. your nails gently scraped at his toned shoulders, shaking as you came on his cock.

a white ring had formed at the base of XIAO's cock, his hips still thrusting up and into to as he chased his own high. "f-fuck, I'm gonna shoot my load inside you..." he mumbled in a hushed tone, speeding up his rutting.

XIAO finally came in thick ropes as he felt you clench around his cock as his last straw, his mouth slightly open as his hips stuttered and bucked up into your cunt. you felt it ooze slightly out as his thrusts made wet squelching noises.

you pulled him in for a sweet kiss before collapsing onto his chest out of exhaustion. XIAO let out a small chuckle, sitting up and lifting you up, still seated on his cock.

"shower?" he nuzzled his nose against your cheek lovingly. "I'll wash you up, my love."

"...xiao."

"yes?"

"it'sss too cold." you whined out, wrapping your legs around his torso. XIAO huffed, standing up with you securely in his arms.

"then, I'll just warm you up again. like how I just did a bit ago."

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 20

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: I’ve been slumped over my computer like a living Fibonacci spiral—also, pretty sure I’ve proofread the first half of this but my memory isn’t that great so I’ll check in the morning (I should have been asleep about two and a half hours ago—I’m so sorry if there are errors)

word count: 7,869

-Part 19- -Part 21-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

It’s quiet. 

There’s nothing in your mind, and it’s quiet. 

No skittish thoughts, or fleeting worry. No frantic heartbeat to wake up to, nor an anxious tug of energy hurrying you along to get out of bed for fear of seeming lazy. It’s quiet. 

The sheets still smell faintly of gardenia, clinging to the delicate fibres relentlessly. How? Maybe it’s just lodged itself in your nose. 

There’s no sunlight this morning—it’s hard to tell the time. A slight outline presents itself on the edge of the mattress, beginning to slide down onto the floorboards. It’s watery and pale, hardly there. Is it warm? You can’t feel anything on your hands… 

You can’t feel anything on your hands. 

The curtains are open, and grey sky fills the window panes. Dark and deep. Probably not deep enough to signal a storm…it would be nice if it stormed though. It feels as though time has paused when it does. With rain so thick and heavy. The rain’s nice, sometimes. It waters things, and gives smells a new shade of depth. When it rains, you remember the shack. How the smell of damp was everywhere. In clothes, in hair, in sheets and furniture. 

These sheets are dry, though. Dry and warm, and keeping you wrapped up and comfy. Heat having sunk into your body, feeling so rarely soft anymore. 

A bell chimes in the far distance, metallic and sturdy. Counting to nine.

You’ve slept in. Wasted hours, already. Wasted, wasted, wasted, wasted away. Wasted away in bed. Throwing time out the window. Letting it slip between your fingers. Draining it out of sight, watching it gush far from your clutch while you sleep. Sleep all your time away. 

Wouldn’t that be nice. 

————

A bell chimes in the far distance, metallic and sturdy, clanging pain through your mind. 

Counting to eleven. 

There’s no point in getting up now. The good part of the day has gone. The early morning when it’s quiet and fresh, and sunlight weakly trickles across the horizon. Glittering upon the frost that’s begun to dust the morning cityscape. Heavy fog rolling off the Sidra, steaming in the early hours to smudge the nearby streets and houses in a dreamlike blur. Even if it bites, it’s a precious part of your morning, only occasionally daring to venture out into it. To walk the misty streets. It’s peaceful, and quiet. Not many folk are about at that time, most either beginning to wake up, or beginning to go to sleep. You have the streets mostly to yourself. 

Though with winter setting in, it’s getting dark. Darker in the mornings. Dreary and dismal, with rain softly spraying in the air as it floats down like powder. Only wet, and cold. Like walking through a fine mist, one that shimmers with iridescence if the sun catches it at the right time. Spiriting you away to another world entirely. Your Quiet Moments. 

The clock chimes a short succession of notes for quarter past. 

You sink into bed. 

Warm and welcoming. 

————

A bell chimes in the distance, metallic and sturdy. Three O’clock. 

It’s afternoon. 

Your head pounds when you open your lids, eyes straining with pressure, and they fall back closed. The light is grey—heavy grey—and cloudy. Droplets were on the outer winder pane.

Evergreen branches holding full pinecones. Damp and gleaming. Spiderwebs with dew drops jeweling them. Bugs crawling along the cracks of bark. Twigs snapping beneath human feet, the smell. Filling your lungs with fresh air, alone in the woods. The twigs might not snap any longer. The leaves might not rustle when you walk over them. Losing the weight of presence. 

The forest with the leaves of yellow, and red, and orange, sometimes capillaries of light green or brown shot through them. Silver bark that had eyes in it, branches growing out like nerves. The forest floor thick with earth, creatures scuttling about, water gathering in the small pools created by tree roots. Mushrooms growing from the underside of the forest floor, some a grey brown, others a chalky red with white drops speckling them. A few had been a murky green, with smaller fungi growing from the parent’s trunk. 

You should have taken it in more, gathered the details from real life instead of giving them form through the illustrations. If you ever get to go back, you’ll remember more. Pluck leaves from the forest floor and dry them out in a candle lit room, pressing them between the empty pages of a leather-bound book. Fungi have simple structures, and fae eyesight would surely lend you a hand—maybe you could manage an illustration of your own. They’re just shapes, after all. Then you could splash some watery colour over them, adding liquid to powdered pigment. Start a journal of some sorts. Of all the things you get to see. 

But you’d have to get out of bed to start, and it’s already three O’clock. 

You won’t be able to get anything done, now. You should wait until tomorrow. Then you can get up in the misty morning. Find an empty book somewhere. Feyre must have one. Could you borrow one? Wouldn’t that be fun? 

Fun. 

Anticipation filters through your blood. Something to do. Something to work on. Something to make. Something real, to keep. To remember things with. To look at when you forget. 

That would be nice. 

————

A bell chimes, ringing through your head. Six O’clock. 

Your mind is aching. Behind your eyes, between your brows. You’ve slept too long. 

Gods, you feel sick. 

You roll off your front, settling on your side, hugging the duvet closer. 

No—no. You’re definitely going to be sick. 

The duvet flies off you as bare feet slap across the tiles of the bathroom, making it to the latrine. You wait, knees pressing to the cool floor, arms shaking as you push your hair away. You don’t have to wait long, fortunately. 

It’s over quick enough. Over and done with. Relief settles through you—it’s over. Your mouth tastes awful, though, and you go to the sink to clean yourself up. Rid yourself of the flavour that’s stuck to your throat and tongue. It takes a while for that strange notch to go away—the one that’s always present after regurgitating, like there’s a lump of something lodged there that you have to swallow around. And each time it refreshes the flavour of your stomach. You grimace. 

At least it’s over, now. 

You hastily clean up the red droplets on the white porcelain. That’s new. 

You sigh heavily, exhaustion weighing on you. You and your now empty stomach. Whatever. You’re up now. Might as well stay up. No point in going back to bed. 

Thankfully your body is still sustaining its warmth from sleep, but it’s beginning to cool with so little maintaining it. Time to wash and dress, then. 

You stand at the wardrobe for what feels like an hour, trying to figure out what you’d like to wear. None of the colours are particularly appealing tonight. Maybe since it’s already evening you could get away with wearing something slightly cosier? Or why care at all—you’re going to cover it all up with a robe anyway. No one’s going to see what you’re wearing, you should go for comfort. 

But you still want to look nice. 

Your head hangs between your shoulders, eyes shutting briefly with exhaustion. At least you’re feeling relatively well-rested. There’s that. 

The missed appointment crosses your mind. Madja. Azriel. You were supposed to see both of them today. Did you sleep through both? And Bas. You were supposed to see Bas soon. Is it too late to go now? It’s too dark. And cold. Miserable. He probably won’t want you inside, either, so you’ll be on the doorstep for most of it, or maybe the entrance hall. 

It’s not happening. 

Is it too late to see Azriel? 

You don’t want to. Not so far into the evening. He’ll ask about the conversation with Nesta, and you’ll have to tell him, and you don’t want to. Your head falls again with fatigue. So much. So much to do. Should have done. You’re getting cold. At least the faelight is warm. Or looks warm. Yellow and orange on pale wallpaper. Your thoughts feel sluggish. 

With a sigh, you pull out a gown—grey as the skies—and shuffle yourself into it, pulling the strings taut so the fabric remains together without being tight. And pull a robe over it. Warm but polite. Put together enough. It doesn’t look like you’ve been asleep all day, then woken to throw up—that’s…enough. 

You go to your window, peeking out through the curtains, wondering if you’ll see any people in the street. At this time a few faelights might be lighting the street, two or three dimly shining a glow onto the cobbles, but for the most part the city is dark for the sake of the stars. It’s peaceful in a way, and makes you feel a little better about having wasted the light away. What good is the day in a city of Night, anyway? There’ll probably be an equal number of shops open at this time as there would at six in the morning. Maybe more, if you think about it. There’s some comfort. Maybe you can shift your schedule to fit the night. That way you won’t have the constant awareness of the day going by.

The sun is a pleasant accessory, but it shows the passage of time too obviously. It’s easy to tell when it’s early morning, when it’s midday, afternoon, evening. Maybe the night has the moon, and maybe the stars will eventually come to indicate time passing should you become well-acquainted enough with how they look, but you might be afforded some time to yourself, unaware of life draining away. Though that’s a very human outlook. 

Your brows furrow. 

Does the passage of time even bother immortals? Do they feel the need to hurry, and get things done? Having grown up without an end? What differences does it make, to live knowing you won’t die? 

————

There’s no one downstairs, and it’s quiet. 

Even straining your ears, you struggle to hear anyone—they must all be out. 

Maybe they’re having a meal at some evening restaurant. 

Maybe they’re having fun.

You tread over to the kitchen to make yourself some tea but find the room completely dark. The faelights are out, allowing only that faint grey light to filter through the— The curtains are closed. Huh. They must have left… Strange to draw the curtains though… On second thought, you don’t really feel like putting liquid in your stomach just yet. Maybe some plain bread would be nice. More digestible, too.

Taking your plated bread and butter with you, you head over to the living room, passing through the entrance hall with the stairs that lead up to the first floor, cutting through to the living room that also overlooks the front garden. You pause when you recognise Feyre’s shape on one of the sofas, a small, winged bundle propped up in her lap, cheek laying across her chest. 

“Feyre?” You murmur quietly, incase he’s sleeping. Deep, blue-grey eye lift heavily away from her baby, her palm stroking the crown of his head. Brows furrow over half-lidded eyes, “couldn’t sleep?” 

“No. I slept all through today, actually,” you reply, making to settle at the other end of the sofa, so you can balance your plate on the plush arm. “Do you know what happened with Madja? I don’t know what happened today—I guess I just really needed the extra sleep. I didn’t mean to sleep through it all.” 

Feyre’s brows furrow, her eyes squinting as she looks over to you. “It’s six in the morning. What are you talking about?”  

“It’s six in the evening,” you counter with equally furrowed brows. “I heard the bells go. At nine, eleven, three, and six.” 

“No, it’s definitely six in the morning,” she replies wearily, “everyone’s asleep, and the lights are off.” 

You blink, looking around. “It’s six in the morning?” She mumbles something that sounds like agreement. Pulls the blanket tighter around the both of them. Nuzzles at the top of Nyx’s head. “Did he wake up early?” You ask, trying to sound normal through the confusion that’s happening in your mind. Dreams can be so alarmingly powerful at times. 

“Mhmm. He’s probably missing his papa,” Feyre mumbles against his head, smiling faintly, pulling back to peer down at their baby, stroking his back tenderly beneath the blanket, habitually avoiding his still-developing wings. “Isn’t that right? Missing papa? He’ll be back today. He hates being away from you.” She kisses the crown of his head once. Twice. Brushes her nose against him, inhaling softly, still smiling despite the obvious fatigue and strain lining her features. There are half-circles beneath her eyes. Her skin taking on a slightly bluish tint in the corners of her eye-bags, shadow making them more pronounced than usual. 

“Rhys’ away?” You ask quietly, beginning to chew on your food. 

“Up in Illyria for the night.” She sighs, readjusting her hold on Nyx. You hum, not wanting to press her on it. You chew on more of the bread quietly, waiting to see how your stomach manages it. You can’t stop thinking about the strain in her features. 

“Is everything okay?” You whisper, glancing at her. “Are we…is it safe now?” 

“Rhys says there’s always a revolt brewing up in Illyria,” she mumbles without opening her eyes. “Says they’d love to stick a knife in his back one day. It’s the same with the Hewn City. A lot of strained ties after the war. We’re still dealing with the aftermath of it all.” 

“But no immediate looming threat?” You ask. Maybe the shadows are just making her fatigue more prominent that it actually is. Maybe you’re bothering her for no reason. 

You shouldn’t be asking her all these heavy questions right now. 

Her body stutters, and her lips have twisted down. A wet droplet shines on Nyx’s head.

“Feyre?” You whisper, shuffling closer. “Feyre, what’s wrong?” Her shoulders shudder under your arm, hand trying to soothe down her back. She sniffles, then tightens her hold on Nyx, hoping she won’t wake him. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Feyre whispers against his hair. Another tear drips down her cheek, and you settle a little closer to her side. “I’ve got no idea. There’s so much to do, and so much to learn… Rhys says he can manage it… I don’t have to take on any more, but I can’t leave it all up to him.” Another tear falls, and her brows squeeze together over tightly shut eyes, the interior of her lower lip clasped between her teeth. 

You don’t know what to say to comfort her, so settle for remaining beside her, arm wrapped over her shoulders. She’s trying to keep her eyes squeezed shut, her brows knitted together tight, nose still grazing Nyx’s sleeping head. You’re thankful he hasn’t woken up. 

“Elain said…” you fumble, unsure. “Mentioned you might like to do something for your birthday.” Feyre sniffles, but you can pick out enough movement that looks like a nod. “Have you…is there anything in particular you’ve thought of?” 

She shakes her head. “There might not be time.” 

You glance at her, heart sinking slightly, hand rubbing over her shoulder. “There’ll be time,” you whisper, not sure where the conviction comes from. “What would you like to do though, if time wasn’t an issue?” Feyre doesn’t respond, her throat working silently. Your tongue flicks out over your lips, “what about visiting the coast? There are a few islands in Night Court territory, we could explore a few?” 

Her body goes rigid, brows squeezing shut tighter if possible, shaking her head. Her fingers tremble, and Nyx’s face scrunches in his sleep. You worry he’s about to wake. 

“Okay, a definite no to that one,” you murmur, forcing some lightness into your voice. “What about…just a quiet day at home? We could…stay in? And talk amongst ourselves?” Her shoulders begin to relax, but she shakes her head. “I don’t want…I like it…love it here, but…” 

“Just not on your birthday?” She nods. You nod back. “Got it. Somewhere outside? Or away a bit?” She nods again, and your heart begins to steady. You’re getting somewhere with this. 

“Okay…then how about…” Oh dear. This is what you get for keeping to yourself for so long. What would she like? 

The silence is stretching…you need to hurry up…think of something to do…something she’ll like that isn’t boring and generic…“Painting?” 

She seems to pause for a moment, and an instinct that isn’t something human urges you forward. “We could take turns? So you aren’t always the one in the chair working? I don’t know how good they’d be, but we could try? I’m sure we could manage some basic patterns. How hard could circles be?” A quiet, wet laugh escapes her lips, and you hold back an obvious sigh. 

“Harder than you’d think,” she whispers, sniffing again, raising one hand to wipe her nose on her arm. “Well then how about we each take turns trying to paint things, and you can laugh at how disfigured our basic shapes are, hm? What about that?” 

Feyre nods her head gently. “I’d like that,” she whispers, “as long as I can keep them afterwards.” 

“I’m not sure you’ll have anything worth keeping,” you mutter, half-joking, “but if that’s what you want…”

“I do,” she replies firmly, making you glance down at her in slight surprise. But then you nod. “Okay… Let’s do that.” 

In the back of your mind, you consider broaching the subject of borrowing—acquiring—a sketchbook, or journal of sorts, but she looks so tired. She looks about ready to fall asleep. That’s probably why she kept the lights off, so the both of them might be able to settle back down.

Her eyes have fallen shut, nose and mouth resting atop his head, keeping him close to her bare skin beneath. He looks like he’s sleeping peacefully. His wings kick in his sleep, and your lips twitch. 

As quietly as you can you stand from the sofa, untangling yourself, making sure to be silent as you make back for your bedroom, pausing a few paces from the sofa to look back at them. Feyre seems so tired, so small, bundled up in the corner of the sofa with her baby. 

She looks like your little sister again, in a way. 

Your lips open, the first of three words sitting quietly on your tongue, but… 

You don’t want to risk waking them. You don’t need to say it. It would probably come out too loud, anyway. 

It would be strange to announce it out of nowhere. 

You don’t need to say it. 

————

You made the mistake of falling back asleep, and now your head hurts. 

You don’t want to open your eyes, for fear of what the clock might tell you. 

If you were given another chance to restart the day, and wasted it again, you might just throw yourself out the window. 

Your brows furrow in disagreement, disliking the flippant thought. Your eyes open on their own, glancing to the clock, not giving yourself the opportunity to doubt anything. It’s about nine o’clock. 

You can work with that. You can get up now, and the day is still ahead of you. It’s not wasted, and you haven’t missed anything. 

Glancing to your side table, you spot a half eaten piece of bread on a plate. Your brows furrow tighter, fingers rubbing at your forehead—what was the dream part? Did you actually see Feyre? It’s all so foggy first thing in the morning. 

The plate’s there, it has crumbs, and it has bread on it. 

You repeat those facts in your head, slowly but surely driving away the haze that’s settled over your mind. Reorganising those events and sectioning dream off from reality. 

A heavy sigh falls from your lips as you glance about your bedroom. You’re still dressed as you were, and you feel fine—no churning stomach, no tingling skin…you’re fine. Breathing is coming easy to you, and while you fail to completely feel the scratch of the sheets beneath your fingertips, there’s enough sense still left in the skin for you to pick up on its softness. 

It’s nine o’clock. 

You groan into your pillow, feeling restless. What can you do today? The weather’s still grey, soft sprays of rain floating down from the sky, misting the air, and you think you spot the faintest trace of condensation in the corners of the glass window panes. Maybe it won’t immediately cheer your spirits, but you can try going outside. Even if it means wandering aimlessly for an hour or so, it’s nice to sometimes look at things and recognise them. Maybe you’ll even end up wandering your way to Bas’ house, or Nesta’s—though you’re not sure you’re ready to see either of them again, with the grey of your heart. 

Pulling a sigh into your lungs, you push up from the bed, dragging yourself to the door to head down the hallway to Azriel. He’ll’ve had his conversation with Mor by now. Will have more questions to ask you. Clarifications to make. It’s tiring. 

You’re tired. 

————

As usual, you knock on his door, entering when he calls, keeping the shawl wrapped closely around your shoulders, remembering how cold he likes it. 

You quietly walk inside, socked-feet pitter-patting across the floorboards, gloved fingers pulling the shawl a little closer.

Hazel eyes flick over to you, sharp and observing. You’d like to hide from them, sometimes, for fear of what he’ll see. “Did you get a chance speak with her?” He inquires. Like I asked?

“It’s barely been a day.” You take the seat at his bedside, organising your skirts carefully so they won’t crumple or wrinkle while you’re sat. “But yes, we spoke.” 

“I’m glad.” He’s watching you, a curve to his under eyes, a small upward tilt to his lips. “How was it?”

Your shoulders roll in an uncommitted shrug. “It happened.” 

A beat passes, and he glances out the window, gazing at the grey sky. “Did you find it helpful?” 

“Not particularly.” 

Hazel eyes move over you, wrapping you in their sight. “Change won’t immediately occur. You should give it time.” 

“You said I just needed to try speaking with her once.” 

“It might be better—for you—if you tried again.” His hands are resting by his sides atop the sheets. Wings pressed to the pillows. “What did you speak about?” 

“You said I just needed to try speaking with her once.” 

“And did you? Have an honest conversation with her, about her experiences and your own?”

The pencil has been moved from where it was resting yesterday, now caught between the pages of the notebook. There’s a mug of tea on the tabletop too, completely cold and untouched, an empty plate by its side. A different book besides the cup, this one with crisp, pale edges. 

“Did you?” He reminds, drawing you out of arbitrary thought. 

There’s a full glass of water, too. It has a hexagonal base, with the six sides made into the shape of small arches, before expanding into a circular top to drink from. The light filters through it, pale and bright, distinctly liquid-like. His eyes are on you, lips set in a line, brows resting as they normally might on his expressionless face. His hair has a slight curl over his forehead. 

You love this male. With his blank eyes and blandly set mouth. With his uncaring attitude toward you, and easy disregard for things out of his control. You have to love him, even if you can’t feel it right now. It’s just a numb patch. 

Even if your heart isn’t beating the way it usually does, and you don’t feel as skittish as you usually do, it’s easy to pick out you feel differently for him that for anyone else. 

Have you ever felt this way over someone else? No, you don’t think so. What is it, though? Is there a reason? He used to make you smile a lot more. He used to make you feel a bit like yourself again. Or perhaps, who you could have been if there hadn’t been so many downfalls in your childhood. 

Oh. 

You don’t want to be here right now. That’s what’s going on. 

Where would you like to be? In your room? No. With Feyre, then? Maybe, but not particularly. With Elain? Nesta? No, and no. The walk was nice though, over to Nesta’s house. Maybe just walking somewhere, in the cold. Treading through frost, and streets that look as shut down as your mind. Noticing things is nice. Seeing plants you recognise, and other architecture features you’ve read about in real life. That’s nice. Maybe a walk is what you want. It feels right. 

How long has it been since you’ve seen Bas? Two days? Can you see him today? Do you want to? It’s a nice question to ask yourself, at least. Do I want to? Do you want to see Bas today? Yes, that would be nice. But would he still be upset with you? He might still be upset with you. Do you still want to see Bas today? Yes, that would be nice. Why? You miss the smell of his home, a lot. The smell of rosemary, and freshly tilled earth, you think. Something like that, anyway. The smell of the outdoors, even if you don’t like it that much. 

Do you not like the outdoors? You like the colours of the streets under frost. It gives everything a slightly glacial, pale purple look. And it all sparkles. Even in the cold. You can appreciate the niceness of it, now you’re distant from it. 

You’re a bit like the frost, Azriel.

Hazel eyes blink. “I am?” 

“Yes I did speak with her. It was a bit helpful, in a way, but I didn’t like how inorganic it was. I don’t like scheduling appointments for my vulnerability. I’d prefer for it to be more spontaneous, and my own choice.” The fabric of your skirts have managed to wrinkle themselves. You release the material from the tight curve of your fingers. “But I liked it being mutual.”

His wings rustle faintly against the pillows, cold air breezing through the room. A latch clicks faintly as the window shuts. 

“It sounds like you enjoyed it a little. Why not try it again?” 

Because you said once. You said once, and then I could speak with you. 

Never mind.

You stand from the seat, pulling up your gloves. You turn from his bed. It would be nice to lie in bed. Beneath the covers, in the warmth. Wrapped in heat, with bare skin feeling the hitch of the fabric, the weight of the duvet. But it would be nice to see Bas. To walk down the quiet streets, where you’re free to observe at your own leisure, and take things in at a pace that suits you. 

You wish conversations with him were simpler, but you find yourself often leaving them feeling lost. 

He calls after you, but his voice sounds so far away you think you might have imagined it. Your mind playing games with your reality in order to cope. Whether or not he truly did call after you, you won’t verify for fear of it being false and turning around to nothing. So you keep going. 

You wish you didn’t have to speak with him. Wish you didn’t have to see him. Wish you didn’t have to look at him and be reminded of how effortlessly he can pluck at your heartstrings, so often stringing out minor chords instead of the light and skipping arpeggios that used to make you beam. You wish you never told him how you felt. It would have all been so much better if you kept your mouth shut. If you’d just seen how obviously he was interested in her. It was a stupid decision to make—how could you have hoped for it to end in any other result? 

It would be better to shut him out. You’re tired of always being the one with her heart in her hand while he keeps his far away from sight, somewhere you’ll never find. 

Why does it always have to be you opening up, when he gives nothing in return? 

————

“And how are you feeling this morning?” Madja asks with a smile on her round face. 

You manage a half smile in return, fingers curling in the duvet to pull it further up, hugging your shawl closer. “Good, for the most part,” you answer honestly. Your throat rolls, fingers playing with the fabric of the duvet sheet, “and you?” 

“Good,” she answers, taking her seat at your side. “Tell me, did you come up with anything you found suiting?”

The smile slips away, head dipping. “No, I…I don’t think I’ve been thinking much over the past day.” 

“You don’t think you’ve been thinking much?” Madja laughs, “I’m afraid we don’t have a choice in whether we think or not. The mind will always be active, whether you’re awake or asleep, it simply depends on whether you recall the thoughts.” Your lips remain in an undisturbed line but your nostrils flare with amusement. “I actually had quite a strange sequence of dreams this morning,” you begin, checking her face for approval before continuing. “I dreamed that I spent the day in bed, and the time kept on passing beyond my control. When I woke up I thought it was six in the evening due to the bells, but it was morning.” 

“The mind can convince you of strange things,” Madja agrees. 

A beat passes, and you shift on the mattress. “Madja, I…I’ve been experiencing some things that I…” Your lips tug down in the corners. “…that I don’t think…” 

The healer nods, understanding your hesitance to complete the sentence. “Can you tell me what they are?” The breath doesn’t come easily to your lungs, but it’s inhaled nonetheless. “This morning, when I woke, I experienced nausea—as I sometimes do…” Madja sits attentively, listening. “I went straight to the washroom, and I…” You make a slow tumbling-spinning gesture with your hands. Madja nods. “Then I…I cleaned myself up, but there was—…there was blood. On the seat, I mean, and I could taste it.” 

Madja’s expression remains calm, showing no signs of repulsion nor alarm, so you swallow, forcing yourself to continue. “Do you…” You cut yourself off—it doesn’t matter whether or not she knows you went to Autumn—that part can be forgotten. “I had some unpleasant sweats maybe a fortnight  or so ago, and…” You struggle to get the words up, heart pounding as shame and embarrassment try to strangle your throat shut. “…I saw blood then, too. When I visited the—…the washroom. It wasn’t my cycle,” you add on the end. You can’t look at her. 

“Did you feel any pain leading up to either of those occasions?” She asks, keeping the rhythm of her words steady. You shake your head. “And have you noticed any blood while visiting the washroom since then?” 

Heat scalds your skin. “I try not to look. But I don’t think so.” In your periphery she nods, but solemn quiet settles. 

Then she reaches out and touches your hand. “Don’t be afraid,” she tells you, squeezing. “People are with you.” 

You nod, unknowing how else to respond to the strange set of words. Madja smiles, but there’s something withheld from it. She sighs, shaking it off. “Now, let’s get started with that checkup, shall we?” 

You don’t speak as much as you usually do while her magic seeks out those bunches of tissue, purging them from your body. You’re thankful for the peace, in a way. Needing some time to come back to life after the mood that had found you this morning. Madja’s as gentle as she always is, careful and tender in her touch as that tingly magic warms your skin, sending targeted bursts deeper. She sits back, laying your hands to rest, then seems to change her mind, touching them again. 

“There’s no easy way to say what I’m about to tell you.” The gentle heat of her magic tingles at the surface of your skin, setting into your carpals, between your knuckles. “How much do you know about Magic Development Theory?” 

“A little,” you answer, searching her face. “I know it isn’t well researched among High Fae, and lesser so amongst faeries…”

“But you know it touches on the development of magic in correlation with physical and mental progression?” You nod. Madja’s lips purse, squeezing your hand gently. “You and your sisters came into magic…in essence, unnaturally. Your bodies didn’t go through the preparations most born-fae experience naturally—that is, the gradual deepening of power. That phase is a crucial part of development, and can cause irreversible damage if something is caused to suppress it. Of course there are exceptions to this—I believe Morrigan was rather unfortunate in that respect as her magic awoke all at once, and the High Lord had a similar experience—but they are by no means normal circumstances. Even if the awakening of power was abrupt, their bodies were prepared for the sharp exhaustion it would cause, while it’s likely that you and your sisters were not afforded that preparation due to your circumstances.” 

“So my body is…you think it’s damaged from two years ago?” You ask, strangely relieved there might be an explanation, even if it might be unpleasant. Just to know what’s going on with your body, to have a reason for night sweats and fevers and nausea and blood. Dizziness and delusion. “Perhaps not from your initial Making, but you’ve told me you’ve had trouble with your magic—that it took these years to manifest?” 

You nod. 

“And that it’s caused you pain in the past? Along with those two experiences you told me?” 

Blood drains from your skin, but you nod again.

Madja strokes her thumb across your knuckles, pushing that comforting warmth into your skin. “Being unable to release your Cauldron-given magic likely means to give it relief, it was infused into your own body. Whatever the Cauldron gave you—that is likely the reason you experience the pain you do.”

“Because it’s inside of me?” The healer nods solemnly. “And it’s— You think it may be irreversible by this point?” 

Madja’s throat rolls. “It is.” 

You swallow thickly, turning your gaze from her, staring instead down at the speckled and flaky skin of your hands. The dry scaliness of your arms. 

You turn back to her, looking feverishly. “It doesn’t hurt as much anymore… Might that not be a sign it can heal?” 

Madja pauses, remaining steady. However she forms her reply…it will matter to you, how she answers. 

Her eyes slide shut, mouth falling to a calm line before she looks at you again. 

She hands you the full glass from your bedside.

“Will you let me try and show you a precious silver lining?” 

————

You can hear the rain from outside, pelting against the ink-black window panes. 

Night has fallen. 

You’ve decided you won’t yet attempt to digest your earlier appointment with Madja—that you’re magic will cause you pain until you die…to never be able to use it properly without that lacerating burn…to be well and truly useless after all… 

Face it tomorrow. 

And yet tears are rising again. 

If you just hadn’t been so scared of it. If you hadn’t subconsciously locked it up so thoroughly. It’s stupid to think that—you didn’t even have any choice in it. 

But if things had been different and you’d be bolder… If you could have been more like Feyre in the woods, or Nesta with her silver flames… If you weren’t so inherently afraid, on such a subconscious level. 

You could have lived and thrived. Explored whatever the Cauldron gave you. And now it’s forever cut off from you. 

You’ll never be able to save anyone with magic like this. 

It’ll never have meant anything. 

————

Three whisper-quiet knocks are landed to your bedroom door, and you pull your head up from the desk. 

You don’t rise from your seat. You don’t want to move. 

Nobody knows you’re awake. You’ll happily pretend you’re asleep. 

Seconds tick by, and you wait with a spiking heartbeat to hear whether they’ll knock again. You don’t know why, but you feel like it’s Feyre. Your little sister stood outside that door, hoping to be let in. After you’ve tried to shut them out for so long. Well, apart from Elain. 

Your lower lip wobbles, vision turning blurry. You’re in a rather regretful mood, apparently, un-helped by the rain outside. It would be nice if these moods didn’t plague your mind so frequently and intensely. If your mind would let you be happy. 

Something hot and wet drips down your face, and you wipe your cheek, blinking away the remaining wetness. 

You think back to this morning, when you nearly told her you loved her. 

You could have died without her in the woods. You probably all would have. You could have easily died in the Cauldron too—they didn’t know what they were doing. Could have died during the war, if they’d aimed the Cauldron to the camps instead of the skies. Life isn’t guaranteed…

The seat is pushed back from your haste, striding across the room and opening the door outwards, those three words trembling in your mouth. 

Marginally widened, dark hazel eyes peer down at you, having narrowly missed having a door flung into his face. You jolt with recognition, hurriedly drying your eyes. “You aren’t Feyre.”

He pauses, assessing your state before shaking his head. “I’m not.” 

You sniff, quickly pulling yourself together. Your brows pinch as you take in the tall Illyrian. “You aren’t��� Are you allowed to be up an about?” 

“Technically, no.” 

“Then…?” You think back to this morning, and want to shrivel into the floor. Then Madja passes through your head. You swallow, standing straighter. “I…wasn’t okay to speak this morning,” you admit, remembering how you’d left before even answering any questions. Azriel dips his head, “I thought not.” 

Your stomach sinks. “Do you…are you wanting to speak now?” 

He blinks once. Shifts on his feet. “You weren’t at dinner this evening.” 

“Were you?” You ask in surprise. 

He nods. “You should try to eat. To help you recover.” He pauses, then adds. “It helps a lot. To eat a full meal, sometimes.” 

“I know. I just— I think I fell asleep again.” 

“You’ve been sleeping well?” 

You tilt your head from side to side. “I’ve been sleeping a lot? I couldn’t tell you whether it’s good though…” Azriel nods his head, and quiet begins to settle in the darkened hall. How late is it now? 

“You seemed in a low mood this morning.” He says after a few beats of silence. You swallow. “Yes…I think the recent weather might be just…you know…” 

He nods. “I know.” A few more beats pass. “You seem awake?” 

“…I don’t want this conversation, right now,” you say, averting your gaze. You’re far too tired, far too drained…but if he insists you’re not sure you’ll be able to turn him away, wanting more than ever his quiet company. 

In your periphery however, he shakes his head. “No, it’s not that.” He assures, then pauses. 

“I said you could speak with me, if you tried reaching out to Nesta.” You incline your head by a fraction to look at him, not skilled enough to mask your doubt. “You told me you didn’t like how inorganic it was.” 

You don’t know where he’s going with this, but you nod your head. You did say that. And it was true. 

Azriel nods his head. “Will you come with me?” 

————

The chill of midnight sets your teeth on edge, but the fleece keeps you warm as does the thick, woollen scarf you have wrapped around your neck and shoulders, and arguably the lower portion of your face. 

He’d flown you out quite a way from the River House—to a part of Velaris you don’t recognise—and yet seemed to have chosen to not go directly to his destination, leaving time for walking. Not that you mind of course, but you turn it absently over in your mind. 

The smell of rain is fresh on the cobbles, droplets of water dripping down the wrought iron of lanterns, weighing the lush green of long leaves until the droplets slip, relieving its end of the weight and catapulting back to its original height. Puddles accumulate in the narrow dips between the cracks in pavement, every colour made brighter, fresher by the gleam of rain. Vivifying colour and scent, life brimming at the surface, adding layers to smells. Walking past an alley, you see a small, speckled bird fluttering its feathers in one of those puddles, bathing itself in quick shivers, tiny eyes squeezing shut in pleasure before shuddering out a spray of dirtied water, now happy and clean. 

While lamps aren’t uncommon, most parts of Velaris are without light during the course of the night. Letting starlight spill over the paving, basking in the moon’s lonely glow, fae eyesight having no need for the aid of candles as humans would. Here, the night sky is bright and beautiful, scattered full of tiny, glittering specs, like millions of miniature sequins cast to the heavens. Some stars glow like gemstones, like diamonds—big and bold, and demanding attention away from the surrounding scatter; others are peaceful and codependent, relying on the smaller sparkle of others to build into a complexity created by a myriad of stars. 

Rainwater still trickles heavily, the splash of droplets echoing between buildings, small streams gathering as the water courses through the streets. You allow the droplets to fill your mind, their trickling splash, their content and syncopated rhythm keeping you listening, unable to predict the next pattern—how it’s an ever-changing, ever-evolving piece. 

Up ahead you can spot warm light spilling out onto the cobbles. It’s noticeably quieter in this part, and you wonder if it’s more residential. If he’s flown you far enough away from the shopping areas. 

“Up here,” he tells you, nodding to the warmly lit area. 

There are no doors, just some stout, rectangular, navy pieces of fabric hung from the threshold of the ceiling’s entrance, hanging in a single row like bunting. Upon each dark blue piece seems to be the side-shop’s logo, embroidered in pale white thread, kept within a neat circle. It’s startlingly small, compared to others you’ve seen, looking more akin to a bar in its layout—high-stools pushed close to a raised table, the kitchen immediately behind…and smelling delicious. 

Your stomach makes some interested noises. 

He had mentioned the destination was food-related, but you’d imagined something bigger, more closed off…not a walk-in, first-come-first-served sort of place. You suppose the thick layers make sense now, with how there are no temperature wards on the place; no indoor seating, seeing as the establishment doesn’t seem to have any doors. 

Teeth nip at the interior of your lip, glancing at what you can see of the interior—it looks pleasantly lit, two fae behind the raised table, with three others on the far end. There would be space for you to sit, without disturbing them… “I’m not sure I’ll be able to finish a meal…” 

He nods. “They have containers you can take food away in.” 

You glance back inside, chewing on your lip. Then you nod.

You hadn’t recognised anything on the menu, but Azriel seems to have visited before. A few times, by the friendly tone spoken between him and one of the cooks. A few minutes later a black, red, and gold, lacquerware bowl had been set in front of you, filled with more than a few things you haven’t so far had the chance to try. It seems to be comprised of a mouth-watering smelling broth, a selection of steamed veg, and half a well-boiled egg, it’s yolk still slightly runny, along with something string-looking. You’re presented with a pale white spoon, decorated with blue ink strokes that make up the petals of flowers and vines—to drink the broth with, you’d guess. 

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Azriel nods to the bowl. “The taste is even better.” 

Hesitantly, you dip the different-looking spoon—almost more like a miniature ladle—into the broth, blowing on it gently, before raising the steaming liquid to your mouth, taking an experimental sip. It’s pleasantly spiced, the juices from the seasoned veg likely playing a part in the depth of flavour, and most importantly, it’s hot. “It’s good,” you murmur, smiling faintly as you finish the small ladle’s-worth, refilling it swiftly. It’s only once you’ve practically polished off the bowl, encountering a little difficulty with the utensils in your gloved fingers, that Azriel disturbs the peace that you hadn’t realised had settled. 

“You looked like you enjoyed that.” You nod, lightly drying your lips with the paper napkins, the logo of the walk-in this time printed in a warm red, matching the accent of the bowls. “I loved the broth.” The light catches in Azriel’s eyes, and he nods. “The broth is good.” 

You glance down at the lacquerware bowl, wondering if you might be able to get the last few drops of liquid from the circumference of the bottom if you tilt it and let it gather. You might have done so if you weren’t feeling pleasantly full for the first time in a while, no worries of nausea to be found in your body. Just warm satisfaction. 

A good meal for a shitty day. 

“It would be easy to have one of those picked up for a dinner,” Azriel mentions on the way back, after having paid. You’re walking at a dawdling pace, unrushed so you don’t get indigestion and spoil the heavenly state of your stomach. You hum, but your eyes feel heavy, despite having slept so much already. 

He doesn’t push it, allowing the comfortable quiet to settle, with raindrops still dripping in between buildings, splashing into puddles. You’re happy to let it remain quiet, your mind feeling pleasantly empty. No skittish thoughts, or fleeting worry. No anxious tug of energy telling you to hurry along in case you’re wasting time. 

There’s little in your mind, save for the warm spice of the broth, and it’s quiet. 

It’s peaceful. 

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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[novlr]

What are some good ways to write about winter?

Winter. is a season of stark contrasts and sensory experiences. It provides the perfect canvas to paint vivid scenes that range from cosy romances to horror-filled stormy nights.

When writing about winter, it’s essential to capture the essence of its chill and the way it can transform the world. Here are some quick tips!

Sights

A blanket of pristine snow covering the landscape

Bare tree branches coated with frost

Delicate snowflakes drifting from the grey sky

Icicles hanging like crystal daggers from rooftops

Colourful clothes stark against the white of snow

Sunlight reflecting off the snow, creating a blinding glare

Animal tracks stamped into the powder

Frozen lakes and puddles

Man-made objects like snowmen and snow angels

Lights shining against dark backdrops

Sounds

Snow muffling and dampening the usual noises

Boots crunching on the frozen ground

People laughing and shouting as they play

Wind howling through barren branches

Ice cracking underfoot or on distant lakes

The silence of a snow-covered world

Shovels scraping against sidewalks

Snowballs hitting their targets with soft thuds

Branches creaking, laden with snow

The rustle of animals keeping warm in burrows

Smells

The fresh, clean scent of snow in the air

Wood smoke curling from chimneys

The earthy aroma of damp wool from coats and gloves

The sharp tang of frost and cold metal

Hot chocolate and marshmallows

Pine needles and the subtle scent of evergreen

Baking spices from holiday treats

The slight ozone smell before a snowstorm

Wet dog from snowball fights with furry friends

Leather and polish from well-worn boots

Activities

Building snow forts and castles

Ice skating on a frozen pond or rink

Snowshoeing through a silent forest

Curling up by the fire with a good book

Skiing and snowboarding down powdery slopes

Brisk walks to enjoy the winter air

Hiking up snowy mountains for panoramic views

Having snowball fights with friends or family

Feeding birds or wildlife braving the cold

Decorating the home with festive lights and ornaments

Character body language

Shivering and huddling for warmth

Rubbing hands together or blowing on them for heat

Shoulders hunched against the biting wind

Slipping and steadying oneself on icy patches

Squinting against the bright snow glare

Snuggling into oversized coats and scarves

Stamping feet to restore circulation

Clapping hands to keep the cold at bay

Arms wrapped around the torso for warmth

Quick, brisk movements to minimise exposure to the cold

Positive descriptions

The serene beauty of a snow-covered meadow at dawn

The invigorating feeling of cold air filling your lungs

The cosiness of a warm blanket on a frosty night

The joy of catching snowflakes on your tongue

The camaraderie of coming together to shovel snow

The nostalgia of winter holidays and traditions

The satisfaction of making the perfect snowball

The wonder of ice patterns on windows

The laughter and excitement of a snow day

The glistening of a frosted evergreen in the sun

Negative descriptions

The biting sting of the wind against exposed skin

The numbness of fingers and toes in the cold

The dreariness of shortened, grey days

The inconvenience of navigating slushy streets

The isolation of a blizzard keeping everyone indoors

The discomfort of wet socks and snow in your boots

The hazard of black ice on sidewalks and roads

The burden of heavy layers and winter gear

The dull ache of a cold that lingers

The gloom that can accompany the lack of sunlight

Helpful adjectives

Biting, chilly, frosty, glacial, icy

Crisp, brisk, sharp, piercing, raw

Fluffy, powdery, crunchy, slick, slippery

Dreary, overcast, bleak, sombre, grey

Cosy, snug, warm, toasty, plush

Twinkling, sparkling, shimmering, glistening

Silent, muffled, still, hushed, quiet

Fresh, clean, invigorating, brisk, bracing

Nostalgic, traditional, joyous, festive, celebratory

Isolating, inconvenient, burdensome, hazardous, gloomy

[oepionie]

—"MY DUMBASS SOPPING WET CAT" leona kingscholar

🎸masterlist | 💬ao3 link

synopsis: "are you insane?! look at you! you're soaking wet!" "i don't care. i had to come see you." in the middle of a stormy night, you hear knocking at your door and find leona standing outside your dorm in the pouring rain. it seems that he has a question for you.

⊹ [ cw ] — passing mention of freezing◞

⊹ [ tags ] — FLUFF.GN! READER | soft leona agenda, mutual pining, kissin◞

⊹ [ w.c ] — 800+◞

Thunder rattles the ground as a bright white flare lights up the dreary dark halls of Ramshackle. The rain pattered against the roof while you and Grim huddled in a blanket. Both of you were watching a soap opera on TV, waiting for the storm to pass.

Grim had long since dozed off to dreamland, snoring quietly, but you stayed up, far too engrossed in the family drama on TV.

As you grabbed the remote to play the next episode, the last thing you expected was to hear a knock on the door.

Now, cats were notorious for hating water, you were pretty sure of that. Those furry little balls of fluff loathed being hit by even a single drop of rain.

So, why in the Twisted Wonderland was Leona Kingscholar standing outside your dorm in the middle of a pouring storm?

Leona's hands were buried in the jacket he somehow had managed to grab in his haste. He kept his attention fixed to his feet as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Bout time you opened the door, herbivore."

"Are you insane?! Look at you! You're soaking wet!" Dumbfounded, you pulled Leona into your dorm and ran to fetch him a towel. The lion followed your retreating form with a paralyzed gaze, uncharacteristically silent.

Was running through the rain really worth it just to see you? He debated just making a run for it. The entire thing had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, anyway. However, before he could do anything, you returned and tossed a fluffy towel over his head. Leona took it into his hands, draping it over his shoulders.

"C'mon. You're making my doormat soggy." You grumbled, nose scrunching up as you pulled the lion into your dorm.

Leona slams the door shut behind him. He pulls you back by the collar of your shirt, dragging you to stagger back until your back was pressed up against the wall. He rests one hand beside your head and uses the other to lift your chin up towards him.

"What are we?" Leona mutters whilst staring at you, taking his merry time to take in every little feature on your face. His expression was contemplative, apprehension swimming in his eyes.

"I dont know-Rivals?" You snort, laying a head on his shoulder. Leona looks down at you with an annoyed expression. Chuckling, you peer up at him through your lashes. "What do you want us to be?"

He stays silent and stares at your lips, glancing back up at you for permission. You nod and he wraps a muscular arm around your waist. Your hands grip the fabric of his shirt, tugging on it slightly as you lean up to reach him. Leona cranes his neck and meets you halfway. He kisses you sensually, moving his hand down to rest around your neck and holding your hand with the other. You pull back and Leona chases after your lips. Giggling, you press the back of your hand against his mouth.

"Woah there, tiger. You're still cold and drenched. Let's go to the living room."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"That really all you have? Crowley didn't have anythin' better to give you?" Plopping down on the couch, Leona scoffed as he watched you drag a bulky heater over. Sighing, you pat the rusty metal. "Deadbeat crow-dad, remember?"

While you fumbled with the old switches, he took a mental note to gift you a new one soon. Old-fashioned tech like that isn't reliable enough to keep you warm during the winter - you could end up freezing to death. It was a situation he wanted to avoid at all costs, especially now that you've wormed your way into his heart.

Finally, after some tinkering, the heater buzzed to life. You clapped your hands, the giddy grin on your face making Leona's lips curve into a small smile. Cute.

"Anyways. Look at you. How much of a dumbass do you have to be to run through a storm like that?" You huffed, hands on your hips as you looked down at him.

The creaky worn down couch was already starting to darken and soak up the rainwater on his clothes. Leona fumbled with his hands, gaze moving to his feet.

"I don't care. I just-" He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "I had to come see you." 

"Why's that?" You questioned, raising an eyebrow at him. Leona blinked. Even he wasn't sure. 

He hadn't expected to feel as strongly about you as he did. These were the kinds of things he thought a person like him was too rough around the edges for. It drove him wild and caused him to daydream about mushy lovey-dovey things he'd never considered before. Despite that, he wasn't ready to fully admit it yet, and somehow, he thinks you knew.

"You always have to ask dumb questions. I just fucking wanted to." Leona scoffed, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into your stomach. His eyes fluttered shut as you stroked your deft fingers over his damp hair, undoing the knots and tangles with care. Snorting at the lion, you poked his cheek and jeered at him.

"Dumbass."

"Your dumbass, at least."

Likes and Reblogs are greatly appreciated and really motivating on my end!

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[selene-and-the-cold]

A character is running through a train station on a cold, rainy winter day. It's wet and dreary outside, a sharp wind biting at their lungs as they run towards the platform. Their train is leaving in a few minutes. It's the last one heading towards their home tonight so they have to catch it.

As they run, their lungs protest, while the character skitters over the slippery platform just to board the train moments before its departure. They heave and pant, lungs stinging as if a thousand tiny needles had just been shot through them.

It takes a while for them to catch their breath, but somehow, their lungs still feel raw and itchy, causing them to cough and clear their throat a lot. And all because they are so unfit, but had to run in the cold night air.

And perhaps because of the nasty headcold, they don't know is coming. Yet...

[pfctipper]

Martin Taylor, ed. Lads: Love Poetry of the Trenches (1989) on the relationship between officers and their men during the First World War (+ HBO war extracts that I can't stop thinking about in relation under the cut)

Letter from Floyd Talbert, dated 1945: 'Dick that is the reason you are loved and will never be forgotten by any soldier that ever served under you, or I might say with you; because that is the way I felt ... you are the best friend I ever had and I only wish we could have been on a different basis. You were my ideal, and motor in combat ... Well you know now why I would follow you into hell.'

Bill Sloan, Brotherhood of Heroes: The Marines at Peleliu (2005): ‘[Dick] Higgins got back to the command post and saw Haldane’s gear piled where he’d hurriedly dumped it before going up on the ridge. Then, without warning, Higgins went to pieces. He fell to the ground, screaming, swearing, and sobbing uncontrollably. “All at once, it hit me, and I totally lost it. They sent me to sick bay for four days, and the doctors advised me not to go back on duty even then, but I insisted. It was better to be doing something than just sitting there.”

Eugene Sledge, With the Old Breed: At Peleliu and Okinawa (1981): 'As I struggled along feeling chilled and forlorn and trying to keep my balance in the mud, a big man came striding from the rear of the column. He walked with the ease of a pedestrian on a city sidewalk. As he pulled abreast of me, the man looked at me and said, “Lovely weather, isn’t it, son?” I grinned at Haldane and said, “Not exactly, sir" ... He wanted to know all about my family, home, and education. As we talked the gloom seemed to disappear, and I felt warm inside. Finally he told me it wouldn’t rain forever, and we could get dry soon. He moved along the column talking to other men as he had to me. His sincere interest in each of us as a human being helped to dispel the feeling that we were just animals training to fight.'

Larry Alexander, Biggest Brother: The Life Of Major Dick Winters (2005): Winters' philosophy of dealing with his men and keeping up morale and fighting spirit was to move among them. One damp, dreary morning he noticed Private Clarence S. Howell manning a machine gun outpost and looking thoroughly miserable. The men had been marching and fighting mock battles for twenty-four hours nonstop. Howell, like the rest, was tired, wet, cold and hungry. As Winters watched, Howell fished a photograph from a pocket and stared down at it. "How's it going, Shep?" Winters asked, kneeling next to the young soldier. "Fine, sir," he replied, still looking at the photo. "What's that?" Winters asked. "A picture from home?" "Yes, sir," Howell said, showing it to Winters. It was a young woman. "My girl," he added, as if he felt he had to explain. "She's very pretty, Shep," Winters said, examining the smiling young face. "You must miss her. Are you two planning to tie the knot?" "Yes, sir," he answered, studying the photo again. "I was just wondering how long it'll be until I can get back to her, or even if I'll ever see her again." "You will," Winters said, patting the man's shoulder. "Just keep your mind focused on your job. You're a good man, Shep. Hang tough."

[sentientgolfball]

Can't Get Enough

So the anniversary of my first fic is on the 23rd and to celebrate here's a Rulti fic. Rain/Swiss was the first pairing I ever wrote for and it's interesting to see how far I've come in just a year.

Special thanks to @jesusbutbetterrr for the idea ! Also @hypnoneghoul @revengeghoulette come get your food!

Read here or on Ao3

Word Count: 4142

Tags: GILLS, intox, water ghouls are wet, this is the like the only time I've written sub Rain and I am in awe

Summary: Rain and Swiss disappear to the greenhouse to partake in their stormy night ritual.

The sky had been overcast all day. Dark clouds sat heavy, a slight chill in the air. The scent of rain was so thick even the Siblings could smell it. Despite the dreary conditions, the clouds did not break until past sunset. It began softly, a gentle patter against the windows; before long though, it turned into a downpour. Rain and Swiss had snuck off to the greenhouse when the first drop fell. 

Now they are laid out on the beat up old mattress Mountain keeps around for winter naps. Fairy lights provide a soft orange glow to the otherwise dark building. The occasional flash of lightning acts as the only other light source. 

This is their ritual. When the air finally turns warm and frost turns to dew, Rain and Swiss will end up at the greenhouse whenever there is a storm. It gives Swiss space to relax. Storms always give him a strong surge of energy, one that usually leaves him with a migraine. The curse of housing multiple elements in one vessel. It gives Rain a place to be immersed in his element while also avoiding the chill that causes an ache in every joint. Coming to the greenhouse together lets them still have company when they need away from the whole pack. 

The first time had been an accident. It was a big storm, one that cut the power from the Ministry and left a multitude of fallen tree limbs. Swiss had needed to get outside before lightning exploded out of his body. He had no idea what was happening, his elements had never surged like this in the Pits before. Rain was letting the storm fuel him, ignoring the ache in favor of letting out massive bursts of water magick. It was the most fun he had had so far in his short time Topside. They ran into each other when the storm got so severe even they knew they needed to get back inside. They both ducked into the greenhouse instead of going to the den for the same reason. They weren’t ready for it to end. They hadn’t known each other very well back then, so they sat on the dirt floor and talked until pain zapped through Swiss’ skull and he nearly collapsed. When the storm passed and Swiss’ pain went away, Rain asked if they could do that again; sit and talk while they watched their element. 

Sometimes it's soft and sweet, like that first night. Sometimes they break into Mountain’s secret stash and smoke until time melts away into honey. Sometimes they fuck until one of them bleeds. Most of the time, it’s a combination. Tonight is no exception. 

They have one of Mountain’s tins sitting in between them on the mattress. Their legs and tails intertwine as they pass the joint back and forth, giggling about nothing and everything. Swiss takes it back from Rain, inhaling deeply and holding for a few moments before blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. He laughs and runs his hand over his face. 

“Fuck this shit is good. It’s cruel and unusual that he hides this from us.” Swiss takes another hit before passing it back to Rain. 

Rain coughs when he exhales, batting the smoke away from his face, “Why don’t you get him to show you how he does it? You’ve got some earth in you.” Rain takes a drink from the bottle of blackberry wine by his feet, also stolen from Mountain’s stash. 

“Oh believe me rainstorm, I’ve tried. Bastard likes to keep his secrets.” He snatches the bottle from Rain’s hands the moment it’s away from his lips which are now stained a delicious deep red. 

Any protests Rain has die on his tongue when he looks at Swiss. He can’t seem to be annoyed that he’s basically chugging the damn thing, too transfixed watching his throat bob with each gulp. He wants to reach out and touch, feel it move. He wants to lick over his neck and feel Swiss swallow on his tongue. Wants to feel the prickle of his stubble, the sting of fangs. Wants to drown in his sweet and spicy taste, utterly consumed by Swiss. He can’t help it, the weed always gets to him. Rain swears Mountain laces the stuff with aphrodisiacs. It doesn’t help that he can still feel the thrum of energy in his veins through the haze of smoke. He begins to lean closer when a flash of lightning startles him, making him jump back. 

“See something you like, rainstorm?” Swiss laughs and looks towards Rain. His eyes glow when a rumble of thunder shakes the greenhouse. 

They stare at each other for a moment. It's quiet save for the storm and their breathing. Swiss grins and leans in close to him. He stops just a few inches away from Rain’s face. Rain has to cross his eyes to keep staring at him. He can feel his breath. He smells sweet and herbaceous when he opens his mouth, his usual spice covered by the wine. Rain closes his eyes, waiting for the crash of his lips. 

“Your eyes are red,” Swiss giggles before closing the last remaining inches. Only he doesn’t kiss him, he boops his nose to Rain’s and makes a honk noise. He throws his head back with a laugh almost as loud as the thunder outside. Rain huffs and tries to push him away. Swiss doesn’t budge, he’s still laughing as he wraps his hands around Rain’s wrists. He doesn’t try to remove them or push back, he just holds them. 

“Don’t be pouty princess, you know I won’t leave you hanging.” 

“Liar,” Rain snaps his fangs “I can count all the times you’ve stuck your tongue down my throat and then left.” 

Swiss laughs at the same time lighting cracks through the sky. It illuminates him, for a millisecond more of his ghoulish features are visible. 

“What can I say? Sometimes the chase is better than the reward.” Swiss suddenly yanks on Rain’s wrists, causing him to fall forward and practically face plant onto Swiss’ chest, “But not here. You always look so cute with that pretty little blush of yours.” 

Rain hadn’t even realized. He doesn’t feel the heat in his cheeks until Swiss points it out. He can feel it get deeper, spreading down his throat when his brain finally catches up. He feels like he’s burning when Swiss cups his face with both hands to force him to look up. 

“Wanna know why I love coming out here with you and no one else?” 

Rain nods. He can’t find his words. Not when his limbs feel heavy and his mind is fuzzy. Not when Swiss’ eyes burn so bright he swears he can see every elemental color in them. He can’t tell if his mouth is dry from the weed or Swiss’ proximity. He doesn’t even realize his mouth is slightly agape until he feels Swiss rub his thumb over his bottom lip. 

“Because I love seeing you like this. Big bad rainstorm too stupid he can’t even ask for what he wants.” 

Rain swallows, throat clicking as his honey filled mind processes Swiss’ words. He can feel the drool in the corner of his mouth. He knows he needs to say or do something but mind and body refuse to cooperate. He can’t look away from Swiss, he doesn’t want to. He’s only brought back into himself when he feels Swiss’ thumb brush the dribble of drool away. He wants to turn his head, get his fingers into his mouth to suck on them. All he can do is let out a wheezing breath, something more akin to a whine than a sigh. 

Swiss waits. He waits for Rain to do anything. He truly does love it when Rain gets like this. Needy in a way he’d never let himself be completely sober. Always has to be in charge even when he’s on the bottom. He enjoys it when Rain is cruel, but this is special. Little bit of wine, little bit of weed gets him so sensitive. Swiss sometimes wonders if he’s faking all the little whimpers he chokes on. It’s captivating, addicting, watching how everything he knows about Rain gets flipped. 

Rain swallows again. Swiss can feel his throat bob from the hold he has on his cheeks. 

“Gonna say something, princess?” 

“Please…”

“Please what?” Swiss tilts his head, grinning wide. 

Rain’s lips move without the words. He knows what he wants. He wants everything Swiss has to offer. He wants to be distracted from the hum of elemental energy by more than just drugs. But his head is so hazy he can barely get the words out. 

“Lips. Mouth. Kiss…please?” 

Swiss huffs a laugh before pulling him in. It’s soft at first, a simple press of lips. Rain still clings to him like he’s being devoured, hands twisting in Swiss’ tank top. He wants to draw it out, really make Rain shake, but the weed and the weather make his resolve slip. The kiss turns hungry fast, a cycle of pulling back an inch just to press back in. Lips meeting lips over and over again with a satisfying wet click. 

Swiss kisses Rain hard one last time before licking across the seam of his mouth. Rain doesn’t hesitate to let him in, groaning when the tip of Swiss’ tongues swirls around his. Rain feels the bead of Swiss’ piercing slip between the fork in his tongue and he nearly doubles over. He tries to lick into Swiss’ mouth with the same hunger, but it feels like his tongue is made of lead. All he can do is tilt his head, open his mouth a little wider, and let him taste. 

Swiss pulls back just enough to bite Rain’s bottom lip before plunging back in, licking over his fangs. Rain’s cock kicks and he suddenly becomes very aware of how hard he is. He uncurls a hand from Swiss’ tank top in favor of palming himself through the sweats he stole from Cirrus. He gasps into Swiss’ mouth the moment his hand touches his cock. So sensitive even through layers of clothing. 

Swiss knows he shouldn’t, knows Rain will just pout and whine and paw at him until he gives back in. He can’t help himself though. He loves seeing the flash of fear in his eyes, truly believing he won’t give him what he needs with his mind muddled with weed. Swiss grabs Rain’s wrist, holding him still the same moment he pulls away from the kiss. 

“Ah ah ah,” he tuts, “not yet, rainstorm.” 

There it is. The wide, almost panicked look in his eyes. He feels the hand still clutching his tank top tighten, claws scraping against his skin. The sting causes a zap of electricity to shoot down his spine. He gets dizzy with arousal for just a moment. He growls, nearly abandoning his little plan in favor of pouncing on Rain. Maybe Mountain really does lace this stuff? 

It’s a high-pitched whine that brings him back. His eyes refocus, looking down at Rain. His lips are shiny and swollen, parted slightly as he breathes through his mouth in quick short huffs. There’s a pinch between his eyebrows that Swiss can help but reach up and smooth out. 

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna give it to you. There’s just something you have to do first.” 

“Please,” Rain begs, “anything. Please just need you.” 

Swiss smiles and fishes the half-smoked joint out of the tin. He wiggles it in front of Rain’s face. 

“You gotta finish it Rainy. Can’t let Mountain know we were here.” 

He knows Mountain will know. They both do. It’s rare they make it back to the den after a night of going through Mountain’s stash. He’ll find them in the morning when he shows up for his chores. Even if they somehow stumbled back inside, the smell alone is enough to prove their guilt. Swiss doesn’t care. He wants a lap full of stupid, pliant little water ghoul. 

Rain looks between Swiss and the half-finished joint. He blinks slowly, processing Swiss’ request before looking up at him with big eyes. 

“S too much,” he shakes his head, “can’t do it. Too much.” He almost looks like he’s going to cry. 

Lucky for him Swiss isn’t totally heartless. Not tonight at least. He coos and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

“It is, isn’t it? Barely had half of one and you’re already brainless.” 

To be fair, he knows he’s not faring much better. He’s not as reactive as Rain, but Mountain’s stuff never fails to make him feel like he’s living in a space between solid and gaseous. Like he’d float away with a too strong breeze. 

Rain nods at his words, a whine escaping his throat. Like one of a dog left in its cage when its owner leaves the house, a sad and broken little noise. Swiss pets through his hair. 

“Don’t worry rainstorm, I’ll help you. But I’m not touching you until we finish it, got it?” 

Rain nods again. Swiss grins and sticks it into Rain’s mouth. His eyes widen momentarily before brings his hand up to hold it. Swiss snaps his fingers and a small flame flickers on his thumb. He holds it close until the end catches, snuffing it with a wave of his hand. Rain takes a deep breath, chest visibly expanding. He blows the smoke directly into Swiss’ face. He can’t tell if it was on purpose or if he’s just that out of it he didn’t even think to turn away. He doesn’t care either way. Rain slumps against him and Swiss moves him so that his ear is pressed against his chest. He keeps one hand around his waist and the other on his thigh. Dangerously close to the bulge in Rain’s sweats. 

Swiss plucks the joint from his lips, taking a quick hit before shoving it back in place. He watches Rain. Watches the way his chest inflates, the way his hand shakes a little. He can’t see his face from this angle, his hair falling in a way that makes it impossible. What he can see, though,  consumes all his attention. His gills. They flutter with every breath he takes, exposing the soft membrane for a millisecond. Every flash of deep cobalt blue makes Swiss’ mouth water. He can just barely make out the little razors that line the inside. He’s totally enraptured watching them ripple minutely. 

The next inhale from Rain is big. Swiss can faintly hear him when he sucks in the smoke. He holds for a moment before letting it out. Swiss’ jaw drops when he watches the smoke pour from his gills. They flare and he’s able to see completely inside of them for however long it takes for Rain to exhale. He swears he can see his throat moving. It makes him dizzy. He leans closer on the next hit, squinting to see if he actually can look into his throat. He can feel the smoke get blown into his face. He’s not touching him, but Rain must be able to sense how close he is because he whines. 

“Thought you said you were gonna help me?” 

Swiss blinks slowly, drawing his attention away from Rain’s gills to formulate a response, “I am. Go ahead rainstorm, I'm right here.” 

When Rain exhales on this one Swiss leans down close. Close enough that Rain can feel it when he sucks in a breath. He shudders when he feels the warmth on his gills when Swiss exhales the smoke. 

“Swiss,” Rain warns. 

Even with his mind totally submerged in honey, Rain knows if Swiss gets his mouth on his gills it’ll be over for him. They’re already sensitive enough when he’s not high. He’s afraid he’ll cum in his pants with the first pass of a tongue. He has cum in pants when he’s with Swiss like this and that was without a clever mouth hovering over his gills. He swallows thickly when he feels Swiss laugh. 

“C'mon finish it Rainy.” 

Rain doesn’t know what else to do but listen. He knows what’s coming. He knows what Swiss is going to do. He inhales and waits, holding out until his lungs ache. He barely has a chance to breathe before he feels Swiss lips wrap around his gills, sucking. He gasps and shudders, hips twitching involuntarily in search of friction. Swiss lifts his head for just a moment, lips brushing over the membrane when he speaks. 

“You’re so close raincloud, finish the damn thing and I’ll give you everything.” 

He dips back down when he feels Rain shift. He sucks in the smoke from his gills once more and the noise Rain lets out makes his cock jump. He doesn’t let go this time, breathing the smoke out of his nose. He licks across the slit just to hear him make that pretty little sound again. 

Rain drops what’s left of the joint with a gasp. His whole body shakes when he feels Swiss’ tongue enter his gills. He couldn’t care less about whatever Swiss told him to do earlier, all he knows is the feeling of the warm, wet appendage. He can feel Swiss’ hand press closer to his cock, but the assault on his gills steals all his attention. 

Swiss is practically making out with them. He sucks on them before dipping his tongue inside as far as it’ll comfortably go. The other hand, the one on Rain’s waits, slips under his shirt. His fingertips brush gently over the gills on his abdomen making Rain moan loud and wanton. He slips the tips of his fingers inside with practiced ease, muscle memory helping him avoid the tiny razors. He pets at the inside membrane and Rain sobs. 

“Please touch me, Swiss. Need it, it hurts. Please.” He’s shaking. He sounds pathetic. He doesn’t care. Not as long as Swiss wraps one of his massive hands around his dripping cock. 

Swiss laughs, speaking into his gills. The vibration drives Rain crazy, “I am touching you, princess.” 

Rain weakly tries to pull the hand that’s under his shirt away. Tries to pull it down to cup the tent in his sweats. It doesn’t even budge. Rain can feel the grin spread across his lips. 

“I told you, didn't I? I wasn’t going to touch you unless you finished the whole thing. Did you?” 

Rain looks at the joint on the ground. It’s almost laughable how close he was to the end. He hiccups, sob catching in his throat.

“No.” 

Swiss hums and shoves his tongue and fingers back into Rain’s gills at the same time. He chokes out a broken little moan. 

“But what oh what about me?” 

“Well,”

Lick 

“You’ll either cum from this,” 

Lick

“Or you won’t.” 

Swiss shoves his fingers in just a bit deeper and Rain keens. He can’t take it. He’s so hard it hurts. He can feel the wet patch that soaked through the front of his sweats. He’ll have to wash them before giving them back to Cirrus. With shaky hands, he pulls the waistband of his pants and boxers down just enough to pull his cock out. He shudders when hot skin meets cool air. He’s slick and shiny, wet from the copious amounts of pre he had started leaking since Swiss kissed him. He gives in to Swiss. He slumps his entire body weight onto him, closing his eyes with a sigh at the same time he wraps his hand around his dick. 

He gets lost in it. The feeling of Swiss practically eating out his gills. At the feeling of him fingering the gills on his abdomen. He jerks himself in quick little strokes, trying to go at the same pace as Swiss’ tongue and failing. He’s vaguely aware of the feeling of Swiss rutting against his back, but it’s hard to focus on anything with his brain effectively turned to mush. If he turns his attention to Swiss at his gills then his movements turn sloppy, barely providing any sense of relief. If he focuses on stroking himself then he’s not as aware of the assault on his gills. In a brief moment of clarity, he vows to never touch Mountain’s shit again. A promise he’s made a million times. One he’ll continue to break. 

He lets out a broken gasp when he feels Swiss’ unoccupied hand wrap around his cock. He gives him no time to process, no time to question. He strokes him fast, fist twisting over his head with each pass. He couldn’t take it anymore. The sweet little sounds spilling from Rain’s lips became too much. He needed to watch him cum, needed him to make a mess so Swiss could lick it up and taste him. Rain is utterly helpless to it. Swiss has every part of him. All he can do is whine and whimper and attempt to buck up to meet Swiss on the down stroke. He can feel his slick dripping down his cock and into his sweats, can feel it soaking his balls and his thighs. 

Swiss presses his thumb into the sensitive skin on the underside of his head at the same time he plunges his tongue into his gills as far as it’ll go. Rain can feel him in his throat. It’s too much, it’s all too much. He cums with a shout, high-pitched and feminine. Swiss slows his movements but doesn’t stop stroking him. Milking him for everything he has. He doesn’t stop until Rain’s crying turns from relief to pain. Swiss pulls his tongue and fingers from his gills, pressing sweet little kisses to his jaw. He mutters praise in between each press of his lips. He holds Rain tight against him, not entirely sure he’ll be able to keep himself upright if he lets go. He rocks them gently. The only sound that fills the greenhouse is Rain’s pants and the storm outside. Eventually, he catches his breath enough to speak. He says the only thing that comes to mind. 

“You touched me.” 

Swiss laughs as loud as thunder, “Had to make sure you caught up.” 

Rain furrows his brow before slowly turning in Swiss’ hold to face him. His body shakes as he moves, groping the front of Swiss’ lounge shorts. His falls open, a brief moment of shock before he giggles. Swiss grunts when he squeezes, smearing the mess in his pants over his spent dick. 

“Don’t give me that look. Not when you just soaked half of Mounty’s mattress.” 

Rain slumps his head forward to rest on Swiss’ shoulder, “You like it.” 

“Damn right.” He kisses Rain’s temple before bringing his hand up and popping each of his fingers into his mouth one by one. He sucks Rain’s spend off, groaning when the taste of petrichor and sea salt hits his tongue. 

Rain is asleep by the time Swiss licks the mess off his hand. He huffs a quiet laugh before lying down, keeping Rain on top of his chest. He rubs up and down his back, until he starts purring. Swiss is quick to follow him after that, closing his eyes and giving in to the pleasant haze in his head. 

It’s a bright and sunny morning. The exact opposite of what yesterday was. Everything has a shine to it, still wet from the storm that raged all night long. Rain is awake, but he hasn’t opened his eyes. He’s warm from the sunlight streaming into the greenhouse. The rise and fall of Swiss’ breathing comforting. His head still feels a bit fuzzy, but nothing like the previous evening. He’s content to lay there all day, but his ear twitches at the sound of a snuffle. He cracks an eye open only to see Mountain standing above them, arms crossed and a neutral expression. He snuffles again, nostrils flaring. 

Rain elbows Swiss in the ribs. He jumps with a groan. 

“Too early. Go bed.” Swiss rolls over causing Rain to scramble off him. 

“Swiss wake up!” He hisses. 

“Whaaaaaaat?” He sits up, blinking slowly. 

When he finally opens his eyes all he sees is Mountain. He practically jumps up, rolling off the mattress to kneel on the dirt floor. He puts his hands up in surrender. 

“Hey Mount. Funny seeing you here we were just—“ 

“You have five seconds to run.” 

Rain and Swiss exchange a quick look before bolting up and running. Rain stumbles, nearly tripping but he catches himself and keeps going. Mountain watches them through the glass. Rain sprints to the lake, Swiss back towards the Ministry. 

Mountain cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders as he walks towards the door, humming a tune only he knows. 

[madaqueue]

playlists

what a waste | "army dreamers" x kate bush

synopsis: on what would have been his twentieth birthday, you visit geto's grave

pairing: suguru geto x reader

themes/content: semi-canon curse au. angst. language. death/loss.

word count: 1.3k

a/n: here's some angst bc i've been in a mood for the past few days and am allergic to being happy!

The grass is damp under your skin, the rain from this morning clinging to your clothes, the smell of wet earth lingering despite the absence of clouds in the sky. This is the closest it’s gotten to raining on this day in years, what would be a sign of late winter opening into spring, but today it just feels dreary and cold.

Sighing, you place the bouquet of lilacs - his favorites - onto the stone, careful to not cover the plaque adorning the granite. At this point you could recite it in its entirety without needing to see it, the words burned into your mind from the countless days you spent reading and rereading it, hoping that the shape of the characters would finally make it sink in.

Suguru Geto

Cherished and loved.

The epitaph still feels halfhearted, empty. Even though you and Satoru spent weeks trying to figure out what to write, everything you came up with felt hollow, unable to capture his essence. You wanted to do him justice, but you just couldn’t; he’s more than a plot of land and some words engraved in stone.

Of course, it’s a moot point: the grave is empty, anyways. After the fight against Toji, Shoko had to completely destroy his body, the risk of it being used maliciously too great. A shudder runs down your spine as you picture it, the cruelty of using your best friend’s corpse for something malevolent.

Would he notice? Would it bother him to know what had happened to his flesh? What makes a person, anyways; is it the body, or is it something else? You hope he doesn’t mind what had to happen to him after his heart quieted and his breathing stilled.

Are you at peace, Suguru?

You can’t help but wonder if, after everything, death brought him a respite from the pain he endured while alive. You knew the nature of his cursed technique, the necessary consumption of evil; in absorbing it, did it make him, too, evil? Was he plagued by the darkness he was destined to destroy?

You hope not. Despite the wickedness he witnessed, he nevertheless dreamed, hoping for a brighter future.

–

“What did you wanna be when you were a kid?” you ask through a mouthful of ramen.

Suguru sits across from you in the booth, forearms resting on the table as he eats his lunch. “What do you mean?” he questions, tilting his head ever so slightly.

“What did you want for a job? There’s no way you wanted to be a sorcerer,” you chuckle. “Like, I wanted to be one of those people who makes the cool brick patterns along sidewalks.”

He holds back a laugh at your answer. “I’m not sure, I don’t think I ever really thought about it.” He pauses, taking another bite of his food. “But I guess if I had to pick, probably a musician or something, maybe guitar, I always liked how they could make something sound beautiful with just their hands,” he muses softly.

“I could totally see you on a sick guitar,” you grin.

“Yeah, but I got my cursed technique too early. I never really got a chance to do anything but this,” he shrugs. “Maybe in another life.”

“Maybe,” you smile.

–

Now, the guitar you picked out for him, an acoustic one crafted in dark wood, sits in the back of your closet collecting dust. You were supposed to give it to him for his birthday. He was supposed to play it. He was supposed to be here, be alive, be celebrating with you.

Pain shoots up your palm as you look down, realizing your hands have been clenched into fists, your nails beginning to draw blood. Shaking out your arms you take in an uneven breath, a desperate attempt to steady yourself.

All the things he never got to do.

“I’m sorry, Suguru,” you whisper to yourself, placing a bloodied hand over the grass covering his grave.

He should be here. He never even got to turn twenty, never got to have kids or the family he wanted, hell, he was just a kid himself when he died. Just a fucking kid.

–

“That…that can’t be right,” you stammer. “There’s no way.”

“I’m sorry,” Satoru places a hand on your back, tears slowly rolling down his cheeks. “I - fuck - I couldn’t save him. I was too late.”

“No, no, no, no,” you begin to spiral, gaze rapidly shifting over the ground as you process his words.

Suguru was dead. Killed by a man named Toji Fushiguro, trying to protect the Star Plasma Vessel, the one who was supposed to assimilate with Master Tengen.

“I don’t…I don’t know what happened,” Satoru chokes out, “But…I saw his body. He’s gone.”

A scream echoes down the corridor - was it yours? Everything feels far away as Gojo wraps his arms around you, sobs racking your body as you cry into one another.

–

Shaking your head, you wipe the tears that have begun to fall as you remember the day you lost him. Despite the years that have passed, you remember it like it was yesterday, the way the setting sun covered you and Satoru as the night air came in, unable to move from that spot as you wept together.

The sickest fucking part was that it didn’t even matter.

When Riko Amanai, the Vessel, was found dead, they just got a replacement, another body to stand in for Master Tengen’s needs. They told Suguru to protect her with his life and he did, but ultimately the loss of hers was inconsequential to the upkeep of Jujutsu society; just as one flower died they plucked another.

But they couldn’t regrow Suguru’s soul.

–

Four men.

That’s how many it took to carry his body from the basement of Jujutsu High. You watched in silence as they passed you, unspeaking, unwavering, unbothered as they bore his weight.

It feels wrong, somehow, like he should be heavier. He always had this gravitational pull, this universe-sized soul that drew everything to him - shouldn’t they be able to feel that?

How heavy is a body? How heavy is the grief it carries?

–

“Hey,” a voice pulls you back to the present, the sun beginning to hang low in the sky as you ground yourself, idly tugging at the dirt beneath you. “I’m glad to see you,” Satoru greets warmly as he walks across the graveyard towards you.

Since the last time you saw him he’s aged, the creases around his eyes deeper than a twenty-year-old’s should be, an air of sadness clinging to him like wet clothes after being caught in the rain.

“You too,” you smile as he sits next to you in the damp grass.

Neither of you explicitly make plans to see each other here every year, yet you both tacitly know you wouldn’t miss this, the annual reconvening one you simultaneously cherish and dread. Suguru deserves to be celebrated, but it’s also a reminder of the time he didn’t get, the birthdays cut short when his life was stolen from him.

The two of you sit in silence for a while, content without speaking as a cool breeze picks up, dusk settling in.

“He should be here,” Satoru mutters, his knees tucked up to his chest.

“I know,” you murmur as you lay on your back, gaze unfocused on the darkening sky above you.

Another momentary pause falls between you.

“Did you love him?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you answer truthfully. “Did you?”

“Yeah.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Satoru?”

“Mhm?”

“Do you think that was enough, that we loved him?”

He tilts his head to look down at the grave that separates you, the lilacs you brought now lightly covered in a layer of dew. Sighing, he brushes away the tears that had been forming along his lash line. “I hope so.”

“I hope so, too.”

He reaches an arm out to you, holding your hand in his as you both place your empty palms onto the dirt.

“Happy birthday, Suguru,” you whisper.

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

Aftermath au: Red Letter Day

Barney gets a call that Gordon Freeman had been found after ten years of being missing in action.

Word count: 4382

Notes: Another fic for my au "Aftermath" because I think its neat. I'm not sure what else to put here, enjoy the fic

Barney was beginning to remember how much he hated Winter as he stared through the warehouse window in front of him. Despite it being the beginning of March, spring was yet to come, meaning the snow was still falling with the temperature following suit. Barney had always hated the season, and as much as he tried, he could never come up with a proper reason. Maybe it was the fact it was cold, wet, and dreary, making any trip outside miserable, or perhaps it was the fact he was mainly cooped up inside all day, leaving him to get cabin fever. Or maybe it was a mixture of those two at the same time, along with the loneliness that came from them. No matter the reason, Barney kept quiet about it, realizing he had no ability to change the weather. All he could do was drink his hot coffee and put on a few more layers than usual. 

Barney took a sip from his mug as he looked away from the window, instead focusing his attention back into the room he was in. It was a storage room, full of random junk and scientific doodads Barney had no knowledge of. Boxes and crates were stacked up in piles taller than he was, stacked in such a way that it made Barney nervous even being near them in the case of them toppling over. Due to the lack of a radiator in that room, it was even chillier than the rest of the refurbished warehouse, making Barney glad he was wearing the warmest sweatpants he could find in his closet, along with a worn out grey hoodie, with the logo on the front being so faded that it was hard to make out as Black Mesa’s logo.

As he looked around, he was startled by the sound of a box slamming against the concrete floor, along with a short exclamation. “Oh, blast it!” “You alright, Doc?” Barney asked the other man in the room, watching as he bent over to pick up the fallen crate.

“I’m fine, just…hoping whatever was in here isn’t fragile…” 

Dr. Isaac Kleiner, or “Doc” as Barney referred to him as, was wearing a white lab coat over a robin-egg-blue dress-shirt and black tie, trading warmth for safety at his place of work. His glasses were slipping off his face as he moved boxes and rummaged through everything in the storage room, making it even more of a mess than it was before. 

“Where on earth could she have gone?” Kleiner asked, not necessarily expecting an answer. “There aren’t any vents she could have crawled in, are there?”

“I hope not,” Barney stated. “Last thing I want is that thing to fall on someone.” As Kleiner looked under a table, Barney spoke up again. “You think it ran off or something?”

“Oh no, I don’t believe so,” Kleiner stood up straight, “I’m sure she wouldn’t. After all, she needs to get fed eventually, so I imagine she’ll come out for that.” “If the thing didn’t eat someone's cat or something.”

“Hush!” Kleiner held a finger up to his mouth, causing both he and Barney to become silent as he listened closely. Barney attempted to hear what Kleiner was listening for, but to no avail, hearing nothing but silence. “Fie! I could’ve sworn I heard her moving around…”

Barney let out an exhausted sigh, “Doc, please, there’s plenty of those pests out there–”

“But there’s only ONE Lamar!”

“...Right.”

“Now, are you going to help me look?” Kleiner adjusted his crooked glasses, “Or are you going to simply stand there, doing nothing?”

“Uh…” Barney glanced away, thinking for a moment. “...No thanks.”

“Oh, you act like she’s some kind of wild animal.”

“It kinda is.”

“She’s been de-beaked and trained, and you know this!” Kleiner stated as he walked towards a filing cabinet near the corner of the room.

“‘Trained;’ I don’t think that thing is really…trained. My dog is trained, and I know you can train cats, but I don’t think you can train a literal parasite–”

“Oh! I think I’ve got something!” Kleiner said excitedly, “Help me move this cabinet, would you please?”

Barney reluctantly approached the metal cabinet as Kleiner positioned himself to the side of it, ready to move it as soon as Barney was. As soon as Barney placed his free hand against the side of it, he pushed, with Kleiner on the other side pulling it towards him.

Barney let out a loud yelp when something leaped at him from behind the cabinet, causing him to fall on his back and drop his mug on the floor. It was Lamar, the “Pet” headcrab that Kleiner had lost, and it was even uglier up close. As it laid on Barney’s chest, its six small, beady eyes stared back at him as he remained absolutely still, afraid of it trying to attack him. Its teeth on its stomach prodded at his stomach, along with its chipped, large front claws, which had colorful duct-tape covering the tips of them to prevent them from being too sharp. After a few moments of tense silence, Kleiner came to the rescue, picking up Lamar from where it rested on Barney’s torso, allowing him to take a breath.

“LAMAR!” Kleiner exclaimed, looking at his pet with relief in his eyes, “Oh, delightful! I’m so happy to see you weren’t left out in the cold somewhere…”

“Mm-hm…” Barney lifted himself off the ground, looking at his feet to see his knocked over coffee cup, with its contents spilled over. “Ugh…” 

Barney picked up his cup from the floor as Kleiner let Lamar go, watching as it waddled across the floor before jumping up onto one of the tables. Barney stared at it with contempt, the opposite reaction to Lamar’s rediscovery compared to Kleiner’s joy. 

“Do you even have a license for that thing?” Barney questioned as Lamar sat down on top of some loose documents. “If you don’t and animal control finds it, they’ll kill it–”

“I’m…in the process of getting one,” Kleiner stated, voice stumbling slightly. “And I hope no one finds her, cause if they do…I’m afraid of what you said coming true. I’m sure it will be fine regardless, at least she knows to stay inside.”

“...Sure.”

“Is everyone safe?”

Barney and Kleiner turned towards the doorway that led to the rest of the warehouse, seeing a lone, albino Vortigaunt staring back at them with her four maroon eyes. She was wearing a similar lab coat to Kleiner’s, with a borrowed pair of black dress pants, along with a fitted light brown sweater, with a hole in the middle of her chest for her third pseudo arm. She stared at Kleiner and Barney for a little while before Barney answered her question. 

“Yeah, we’re fine…” Barney sighed, glancing towards Lamar, “We just found Kleiner’s…pet.”

“Everything’s under control, Violet, you can get back to work!” Kleiner added.

“I see.” Violet’s gravelly voice seemed quieter than usual, making Barney’s brows furrow a bit.

“You alright?” He asked.

Violet seemed puzzled. “Hm?”

“Are you doing alright? I have noticed you’ve been a bit…closed off for the past few hours.” Kleiner inquired.

“We have been…distracted…” Violet responded. “I imagine it will be cleared up soon.”

“We?” Barney asked.

Violet didn’t answer. “I must get back to helping the others…the teleporter is nearly ready for its first test...”

“Oh! Wonderful. I’ll be there in a little bit.” Kleiner stated as Violet left the room. Barney remained puzzled, looking back at Kleiner with a feeling of unease in his chest.

“She said ‘we’.” Barney stated.

“I’m aware,” Kleiner responded. “You see, the Vortigaunts are able to tap into something they refer to as the ‘Vortessence’, and are thus all conne–”

“I know, Doc, I just…” Barney paused for a second. “If she’s talking about all the Vortigaunts, then wouldn’t that be a bit worrying?”

“...Maybe, but I'm not sure.” Kleiner stated. “Though, one of the members of the survey team we sent earlier today was a Vortigaunt, and that team hasn’t returned yet so…maybe there is a connection there.”

“Maybe.”

“Either way, I believe i’ll go and speak with her, just to make sure everything’s alri–”

Barney’s phone ringing from his pocket interrupted their thoughts, and when Barney pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open, he saw the number was from one of his coworkers at the hospital. “Sorry, I gotta take this.”

“You’re fine, you go ahead and I’ll go check in with the others.”

Barney nodded, watching Kleiner leave the room before he answered the call and put his phone up to his ear.

“Hello?”

Barney listened closely to the person on the other end of the phone, barely processing what they were saying. 

“What’s going on? 

Not going to believe what? 

So what, why are you telling me this?”

Barney listened closely, all before he felt his heart skip a beat. The sinking feeling in his chest was enough to render him silent, all before he let out a meek “I’ll call you later.”

Barney rushed out of the room, running past Kleiner in the process, nearly pushing him over as he approached the exit. “Barney? What’s going on, are you alright–” “They found him.” Barney’s voice shook as he spoke, with him barely being able to make out the words from how tight his throat was.

“Found who?”

Barney was already out of the building by the time Kleiner asked the question, leaving it unanswered.

Barney saw his own breath clouding in front of his face as he sprinted across the parking lot of the warehouse, nearly slipping on ice multiple times but not giving any time to care. When he reached his car, he swung the door open and crawled inside, starting the engine and speeding off without a single word. His thoughts ran through his head faster than his car was capable of going, slurring together without a single cohesive thought coming through. He didn’t care if he was a few miles above the speed limit; he needed to get to the hospital as soon as possible. He needed to see if what his coworker said was right.

If it was truly Gordon Freeman that was brought into the ER, he needed to be there.

When Barney made it to the hospital lot, he rushed through the front doors, looking around before approaching the front desk, out of breath from both the physical and mental strain that was put on him. Through harsh breaths, he asked, “Is Gordon Freeman here?”, with pleading eyes focused on the woman behind the desk.

“Oh, hello Mr. Calhoun, I can look through the system for a ‘Gordon Freeman’, if you’ll sit tight for a moment.” She looked towards the computer in front of her, typing in something and looking through files as Barney waited, his impatience building up inside of him.

“Fuck this.” He pushed himself away from the desk, storming down one of the hallways despite the woman at the front desk telling him he wasn’t allowed to as he was off duty. Barney rushed past hospital workers, asking them if they knew where Gordon was, only to be met with worried and frightened looks along with no answers. Barney’s frustration only grew as he ran through the hospital halls, with the familiar building beginning to feel like a maze meant to confuse him. As he ran further into the hospital wing, he slammed against one of the doctors in the hall, causing him to topple to the ground as Barney tripped over his own feet.

“Sorry, I just have to–”

“Barney? What the hell are you doing back here?” The man questioned as Barney sped past him.

“I’m looking for Gordon Freeman,” Barney answered, turning around. “Have you seen him?”

“He’s in the ER right now,” The man snapped back as he slowly stood up. “You can’t see him until he’s out of surgery.”

“Surgery? Is he safe? Is he alright?” Barney questioned, walking closer to the doctor. 

“Yes, he’ll be fine, just…” The doctor let out a tired sigh. “Get out of here, you’re off duty and risking your job with a stunt like this.”

“I need to see Gordon, alright?” Barney explained. “He’s been gone for a fucking DECADE, and he’s been found again, I can’t just leave him–”

“Calhoun.” The man raised his voice as he glared at Barney with a look of both contempt and pity. “...Listen, just wait until he’s out and I’ll see what I can do, do you understand?”

Barney remained silent for a moment, letting out a sharp breath before nodding. “Alright,” He stated, defeated. “But he better be getting the best treatment in there.”

“I’m sure they’re doing all they can, they understand his reputation–”

“I don’t care about his reputation, if i’m right, that’s my goddamn friend in there.” Barney spat. “...Let me know when he’s out. I need to at least…make sure it’s…the right guy.”

“I’m sure someone will let you know.” The doctor stated. “...Now please go back to the waiting room before I call security.”

Barney did as he was told, reluctantly walking across the hospital premises and back into the waiting room, where he will stay for another few hours. He paced around the room, bounced his foot up and down, fidgeted with his hands; anything to try and pass the time as the minutes passed by agonizingly slow. After he had already been there for what felt like days within the timespan of a few hours, he saw a nurse walk towards him. “Mr. Calhoun?”

Barney’s head lifted up, looking towards the nurse before following her down a hallway. After a couple-minutes walk, they stopped in front of a door leading to a recovery room. “He’s in there,” The nurse stated. “He’s currently sleeping, so I ask you to be quiet and not attempt to wake him up.”

“...Yeah.” Barney hesitated before walking through the door, stepping into the room, seeing a curtain blocking his view of the bed. He paused, standing in place for a moment as he wondered if the face he was about to see was truly Gordon, or simply someone mistaken as him. He wondered if he wanted the answer, or if he’d rather live in ignorance, avoiding the crippling disappointment if it wasn’t the man he thought it was, but as he walked past the curtain, every worry in his mind ceased and his thoughts became silent as he looked at the man on the bed.

Sure, his body was covered with blood-soaked bandages, his right leg was in a cast, he had medical equipment around him, and he was missing his glasses, but his face was painfully recognizable. Barney choked back a sob, covering his mouth when he saw Gordon’s face again.

“Are you alright?” The nurse behind him asked, noticing Barney’s teary-eyed look.

“I’m fine.” Barney whispered before letting out a short chuckle and a forced smile. “It’s just…he didn’t change a damn bit.”

Barney hadn’t even noticed it had been an hour since he entered the room, being surprised when he glanced at the clock and saw it was nearing 10 PM. He sat on a chair beside Gordon’s bed, having moved it from the corner of the room to right beside it. His leg bounced up and down as he looked at Gordon, all before lowering his head and letting out a deep sigh. He wished to speak to him but he was out of words he could possibly say at that very moment, not to mention the wish to stay quiet so Gordon could recover without being woken up. He wanted to tell Gordon everything that had happened in his absence; how Kleiner started up another lab to continue Black Mesa’s studies, how Eli also set up one on the other side of the city, and how Barney had finished college and was able to become a nurse. Gordon missed so much, and even though Barney wished to dump every piece of information onto him, he realized that even the realization that it had been ten years would be overwhelming enough. Thus, Barney figured to start simple, and just talk, like friends, for the first time since the Black Mesa incident.

As Barney leaned back into his seat he felt the back of his head hit something that wasn’t there before, feeling bitter cold yet organic at the same time, like a corpse’s fingers curling around the top of the backrest. He swung around, half expecting someone to be there, yet he saw nothing of the sort, seeing only the beige wall behind him. Barney let out his breath, looking back at Gordon before realizing he should head back; his stress and emotional state must have made him paranoid, not to mention the feeling of his hair standing on end. He stood up, walking towards the door out of the room before taking one last look back at Gordon before he finally left.

Later that night, Barney paced around his living room, being watched by his pet rottweiler as he talked on the phone. “The Survey team were the ones that found him?” he asked.

“That’s what they said,” Kleiner stated from the other side of the line. “The Vortigaunt was apparently the one that found him, specifically.”

“I see.”

“Quite Miraculous,” Kleiner continued, “The fact that Gordon had survived there for ten years before being found.”

“Yeah…” Barney unsurely stated under his breath.

“Nevermind that, what are you planning now?” Kleiner asked. “Should we have some kind of party? A celebration should be in order for him being back, I’d say–”

“I think he needs rest, he’s…been through a lot.” Barney stated. “I’ve thought of him staying over at my place until he can find a place of his own or until he recovers, but we’ll see how he’s feeling.”

“Are you sure? I’m sure we can find a spare room in the lab for him.”

“I dunno if he’d wanna live in a loud lab with a headcrab, doc.”

“...I suppose you have a fair point.”

“It was just so…strange.” Barney stated. “They say it was a ten year coma, but I don’t buy it. I don’t buy it at all.” “What makes you believe that?” 

“The fact he was bleeding. The fact he had fresh wounds from Black Mesa,” Barney elaborated, brows furrowed and his free arm crossing over his chest. “Not to mention the fact he was found with that…suit on.” “What kind of suit?” Kleiner questioned. “Oh, do you mean the Hazardous Environment Suit?”

“Yeah. Why would he be wearing it ten years after the incident was already over?”

“Who knows,” Kleiner sighed, “I’m sure I can talk with Eli to see if he has any ideas on–” Kleiner was interrupted by a loud crash and squeaking coming from behind him, audible through Barney’s phone. “Goodness gracious, LAMAR, NO–”

“You alright Doc?” 

“I’ll have to speak with you later, Lamar got in the vents again–Lamar get DOWN from there, that’s not safe!” After that, the call ended, and Barney was left to himself once again. Barney sighed, putting his phone back in his pocket before he heard a deep ruff coming from his dog, who was laying next to the couch in the living room, with its white patches of fur on its snout showing its age.

“You hear that, Gordon?” Barney said. “You might get a new roommate…a…different Gordon.”

The dog yawned and rested his head on his paws as Barney walked towards the living room couch, sitting on it and resting his feet on the coffee table in front of it. He leaned over the armrest, scratching the top of the dog’s head. “Guess I’ll have to explain to him why you’re also named Gordon, huh bud?”

Gordon didn’t respond, instead just letting out a soft ruff again. Barney leaned back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling before folding his hands on top of his stomach. He wasn’t looking forward to explaining why his pet was named after his friend, he realized. After all, it’s not very easy to tell someone you thought they were dead for years.

As soon as Barney received the call that Gordon was awake the following evening, Barney rushed back to the hospital to visit him once again. As he drove across the city, worries he didn’t think about before began to creep up inside his brain. Even though he didn’t necessarily believe the coma theory the doctors had, nor did he believe even they believed it fully, he thought of the possibility of it being true, and if Gordon would even remember who Barney was after a full decade of sleep. It would be a surprise if Gordon remembered anything after that amount of time, but Barney pushed down his pessimism, trying to be optimistic just this once.

After making his way down the hospital hallway once again, he found himself back in front of the door to Gordon’s room, with a nervous feeling deep in his gut as he prepared to walk inside. He took in a breath and stepped inside, looking towards the bed in which Gordon was laying on, only to have his gaze met by two bright green eyes, ones Barney hadn't seen since ten years prior. Barney froze in place, staring back at Gordon, who appeared to be surprised to see him. As Barney sat down in the chair beside the bed, he swallowed hard, wondering what he could possibly say now that Gordon was awake. As he thought to himself, a question left his mouth that he wasn’t initially planning on asking:

“Where were you?”

The question lingered in the air like a foul odor, with Gordon’s brows furrowing lip quivering slightly, all while he curled his hands into fists. He turned away from Barney, looking down at his feet, thinking of something to say, though his hands didn’t once lift up to sign a single word.

“You…disappear for 10 years without warning,” Barney continued. “Leaving everyone to believe you were dead.”

Gordon didn’t make eye contact with Barney as he spoke.

“I thought you were dead and buried somewhere, Gordon,” Barney choked. “But…You’re here in front of me now.”

Gordon glanced at Barney before he felt arms being wrapped around his shoulders, tight, but not too tight to make it hurt.

“I fucking missed you, Gordon.” Barney said as he hugged Gordon, feeling the gesture being returned to him. Gordon’s hands shook, feeling weak and cold, yet he didn’t want to let go of the single shred of kindness he had felt since what felt like eternity. After a few moments Barney let go, sitting back down with red, tear-filled eyes. 

“...You…missed a lot.” Barney stated; Gordon nodded knowingly in response. “I’d tell ya’ everything, but…I don’t even know how to start.”

“Are they safe?” Gordon’s hands were shaking, but Barney could make out the message regardless.

“Who, like…Kleiner? Eli?”

Gordon nodded slightly, lips pursed in anticipation. 

“They’re alright,” Barney assured, allowing Gordon to let out a breath. “In fact…they’re excited to see you again. Kleiner especially, he’s hoping to get you back into his lab…don’t know if you want to do that, but the offer’s there.”

Gordon appeared to have had a weight lifted off his shoulders at the news, but the cold yet somber gaze didn’t leave his eyes. Barney planned to tell Gordon that they were among the few survivors of the Black Mesa incident, but he bit his tongue for the time being.

“...Never thought you’d be in the history books, did ya?” Barney let out a lighthearted chuckle in an attempt to lighten the mood. “You’re a hero in everyone’s eyes, now.”

Gordon shook his head, looking down and away from Barney’s gaze as he clasped his hands together on his lap. Barney stared at him with a look of confusion and worry, all before forcefully clearing his throat. 

“I’m just…happy to see you alive, Gordon.” Barney stated. “After…a few years I began to…to lose hope.” Barney paused for a second, realizing Gordon was still not meeting his gaze. “...Should’ve known you were a tougher son of a bitch than that, I guess.”

Gordon scoffed slightly before shaking his head again, still staring at his feet. Silence fell as Barney attempted to think of something else to say to ease the tense atmosphere, though his thoughts were blank and void of any ideas. Barney looked towards Gordon yet again, seeing he was raising his hands up to sign something:

“Missed you too.”

Barney smiled slightly, despite feeling as if he wanted to cry right then and there. He never anticipated he’d be this emotional in his life, yet here he was; about to cry for the second time that day. Seeing his legally dead friend after ten years of being missing in action was enough to warrant it, he supposed.

“I’m sure the others will be happy to show you everything they’ve been working on,” Barney said, with Gordon finally looking back up at him, before looking directly behind him, “They’ve been working on a new telepor–”

Gordon flinched, staring at something behind Barney before attempting to crawl backwards, nearly ripping off his IV in the process. Barney looked behind him, seeing nothing but the wall before he heard a loud thud coming from the bed. He turned, seeing Gordon had fallen off of the bed and onto the cold linoleum floor. “Gordon!” Barney quickly ran to his aid, holding out an arm for Gordon to grab, lifting him off of the floor. When weight was put onto his right leg, Gordon grimaced, using Barney as leverage as he was put back onto the bed. “Jeez Gordon, what got you freaked out so ba–”

Barney was silenced when Gordon hugged him without warning. Barney could hear him quietly sobbing into his shoulder, and as he returned the hug, he wondered if he had ever seen Gordon so touchy before; It was as if he hadn’t had human contact in days. This time however, Barney wasn’t quick to let go. The last thing he wanted to do was leave his best friend behind again.

Not this time.

[ohthewh0rror]

YOU TOLERATE IT.

˚₊ ⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆ ₊˚ prompt — “hey i love your writing. Can you write a tom riddle x reader with tolerate it by taylor swift”

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: I’m starting to realize Tom is perpetually broke in most of the one-shots I write about him, but like, it’s the late 40’s and bro is working in retail while living in the city. My man is not gonna be rolling in money by any means (lmao). Also, let’s act like living together unmarried is cool in the 40’s.

“I know my love should be celebrated but you tolerate it”

The bitter December winds left you shaking, the cold seeping beneath the layers of your clothes and settling deep into your skin. Winter was never your favorite time of year, it was far too cold and wet for your liking. The only good thing that came out of this wretched month was your lover's birthday, which is what brought you out of your flat and out into this dreary weather.

Tom may not care much about celebrating his birthday, seeing it as just another day of the year, but you always tried to do something special for him anyway. The past three years you had bought a cake and a handful of little gifts, but money was tighter than usual this year, as your hours had been nearly cut in half, leaving the two of you to rely more on Tom’s salary at Borgin and Burkes, so just a single present with no cake would have to suffice this time. To make up for only getting one thing, you decided to get him something special, and it took almost 3 months of saving and cutting corners in certain areas just to save up for the gift you were getting for him.

It was a limited edition book Tom had been eyeing for a while. You weren’t exactly sure what it was on, as Tom wasn’t one to share his work or research with you, but it seemed awfully important to him. So, with the little money you had saved you set out for the day to purchase it. Luckily the store was fairly empty, letting you get in and out quickly, now all that was left was to get home and find the right time to give it to him.

Stepping through the door of your shared flat had never felt like such a relief from the biting cold that was unable to reach you here in the warmth of yours and Tom’s place. You were careful to hang your coat and purse on the appropriate hooks, knowing Tom would ask you to straighten it if it wasn’t placed in the correct spots. You placed the bag containing his gift on the countertop, not bothering to hide it, as you knew Tom wouldn’t ask about it.

While you were happy to see Tom, he didn't seem to share the sentiment as he only spared you a quick glance before going back to reading the documents that sat before him on the table, the work before him apparently far more interesting than you at the moment. You tried not to be disappointed as you walked to him, rounding the table to where he was sitting. You least hoped to receive a ‘hello’ kiss from him, but, as you dipped down to place a kiss on his lips he flinched away from your touch causing you to stop where you were.

You could feel his breath fan across your face as your face hovered close to his, a feeling of hurt spreading through you. Tom must have seen the look on your face because he quickly apologized, “I’m sorry, darling, you took me off guard.”

Meeting you the rest of the way, he gave you a quick kiss, but you were still unsatisfied. His kiss seemed detached, almost impersonal, as if he was doing the action out of obligation and not love. You tried not to think too hard on it as Tom has never been very passionate, but it seemed like lately the love that was once there was being replaced by indifference. You knew every relationship had its ups and downs, but it was still difficult to work through as your presence felt as if it was being merely tolerated instead of sought after.

“Have you eaten lunch yet? I can make us something,” you offered, hoping he’d agree to it, as you couldn’t guarantee he’d be here for dinner and you wanted to give him his present. Tom gave you a simple ‘that’s fine’, before going back to his papers, leaving you to get to work.

As you made lunch you told Tom about your day and other small happenings in your life, just trying to make conversation with him. What Tom was working on must have been important because he was quieter than usual, not giving more than a one or two word answer. “—I mean, can you imagine?” You asked with a giggle drawing your lengthy story to an end, expecting to hear Tom’s amused voice in response.

Instead you were met with the opposite, “come again? I didn’t hear what you said.” Tom sounded unimpressed, making you falter, another wave of disappointment sweeping through you at the fact that he wasn’t listening to a word you said. “It’s nothing, just something silly that happened…” you trailed off at the end, not wanting to even bother finishing your sentence. Tom said nothing, and you didn’t bother saying anything else.

You and Tom sat in silence while you both ate, and though it wasn’t tense, it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. At least not to you, who now worried about giving Tom his birthday present. While you shouldn’t be worried about giving it to him, as you knew it was something he actually wanted, you couldn’t help but worry that you’d be met with the same unimpressed response.

You couldn’t just keep the present all night though, and if there was any time to do it, it was now. So, you got out your chair and grabbed the book from the bag it was in off the counter. Walking up to Tom you stopped just before him, causing him to set his fork down and look at you expectantly. You took in a breath before forcing the words out, “Happy 22nd birthday, Tom.” You held the book out to him, and he gently grabbed it from you, reading over the title.

You weren’t sure what you expected. A passionate kiss? A genuine thank you and declaration of love? Or maybe even just a grateful smile? Because what you got was none of that. No, you were met with a strained smile and a small thank you before he went back to eating.

You stood there for a second longer before going back to your seat feeling embarrassed. You saved for so long and put so many of your own wants aside in order to save up for this gift only to get nothing in return. You bit down harshly on the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from crying at how truly unappreciated you felt by him.

Maybe it is time to leave and end things for good, you’re sure he wouldn’t be bothered by the absence of your presence. You could leave and start over, get a new job, a new place and find someone else.

Someone who actually loved and appreciated you.

But as you looked up from your plate and gazed upon his face you knew that you’d never be able to just up and leave. It would only leave you with a heavy ‘what-if’ hanging in the back of your mind. What if you were just overthinking his actions lately and this was just a normal rough patch? What if you hadn’t left? Would it have worked out?

You didn’t want to live with that ‘what if’, you would stay until he forced you away. So you keep quiet about your displeasure and just sit and watch him flip through the book, dreaming of a life where Tom is as madly in love with you as you are with him.

[ikeromantic]

Dreary Weather

Ikemen Advent prompt featuring Masamune! approx. 400 words.

Masamune stared out the window with a sour expression. “I guess we won’t go riding today.”

“Maybe tomorrow?” The chatelaine glanced out at the sleet and ice. It was cold and wet and miserable out there. A dreary winter day that made her glad for the warmth of the mansion. 

“Yeah.” He sounded so disappointed that it pulled at her heart strings. 

She took his hand. “So what do you want to do today instead?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. Just how much fun it would be to take you for a ride.” His one blue eye found her, and a spark of mischievous passion lit within. 

“Masamune,” she said warningly. “What are you thinking?” The chatelaine let go of his hand and took a step back. 

His grin was more than a little wicked. “Come here and I’ll tell you.”

“No. Nope. I don’t think so.” She took another step back. 

The tiger lunged.

She squealed and dashed away, “Masaaaamuneeeee! Stop! Ahhhh!”

“Not til I catch you, kitten!”  He chased her out of the room and down the hall, feet pounding on wood floors. 

They tore down covered walkways and through rooms, dodging around servants and furniture. Laughter preceded them and knowing gazes followed. 

When he finally caught her, Masamune pulled her back against his chest. “Got you now.”

She wriggled as if trying to get loose. “It’s not over til it’s over!”

“And isn’t it over now? Sweet as the chase is, catching’s still the best part.” He placed a soft kiss to the nape of her neck. 

Her protest dissolved into a sweet sigh. 

“Ready to mount your stallion?” He nipped her earlobe.

“Alright,” she breathed. “But you have to whinny like you mean it.”

Moments later, the two came down the same hall at more sedate pace this time. Masamune couldn’t move as fast on all fours, especially with the chatelaine perched on his back. 

[nectar-cellar]

OC Obscure Associations

thank you for the tag!! @descendantdragfi @elderwisp @treason-and-plot @holocene-sims lets ignore the fact that im super late to doing this 🤍

honestly i had to think ab these a lot i hope they make sense even tho they probably don't 💀

-

ANIMAL: scared cold wet dog that was left out in the rain

COLORS: black

MONTH: december

SONGS: less than zero - the weeknd

NUMBER: 13

PLANTS: a small potted cactus

SMELLS: old books, gasoline, chlorine, the smell of grass and roads after the rain, sandalwood, smoke and leather

GEMSTONE: ruby and obsidian

TIME OF DAY: 3AM

SEASON: winter

PLACES: a late-night diner, an empty library

FOOD: chinese takeout, greasy cheesy pizza, falafel, instant ramen, fast food

DRINKS: black coffee, cans of redbull and monster, cheap beer, tequila, foul-tasting protein shakes

ELEMENT: earth

ASTROLOGICAL SIGNS: i'm honestly stumped by this one bc i'm not very well versed in astrology. what sign do u think he is

SEASONINGS: pepper, chili, cumin, cardamom, cinnamon, garlic, hot sauce

SKY: dawn

WEATHER: rainy, dreary, foggy days. a hot summer night. a snowy east coast winter.

MAGICAL POWER: mindreading / telepathy

WEAPONS: a metal baseball bat. brass knuckles. a small pistol.

SOCIAL MEDIA: twitter, letterboxd, an empty grindr profile

MAKEUP PRODUCT: he doesn't wear any but smudgy black kohl eyeliner and black nail polish are very him. maybe some glitter face paint too.

CANDY: chewing gum he bought from the corner store

METHOD OF LONG DISTANCE TRAVEL: plane (economy seats)

ART STYLE: a rough pencil sketch made in a notebook... also, not sure what u call it but that art style you see in older superhero comic books

FEAR: fear of abandonment

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: the griffin, or alternatively, a vampire with a moral dilemma

PIECE OF STATIONARY: wooden pencil

THREE EMOJIS: 🖤🙏🔥

CELESTIAL BODY: the moon 🥺🌙

[evermourning]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 - seo changbin

pairing: seo changbin x reader, lovertober entry iv

genre: fluff, comfort, slice of life, established relationship

wc: 4.7k

warnings: TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF., gender neutral pronouns used, hubby binnie, pet names (binnie, baby, honey, love), some sweet crack moments, dirty jokes (1), lots of kisses, language, non-sexual nudity, domestic binnie <3

a/n: this is my formal apology for second best. also, please don't diss my songwriting skills...i'm a writer, not a songwriter 😭😭 ^^

for many years, you had loved seo changbin.

it felt like from the moment you met him, he was destined to be the man slipping a beautiful ring onto your finger. he was so perfect to you, and you were excited to spend the rest of your life with him.

you had been married four seasons, and each one was better than the last. god, you loved him. you loved him because with his arrival in your once dreary and bleak life, he brought a gust of fresh air, filled to the brim with complete adoration for you.

in the winter, snowflakes danced in their descent towards the earth, painting your windowpane with a layer of frost. however, inside was quite the opposite. changbin had made the fire, crackling and bright as it emanated warmth and adding a cozy ambience to the living room.

just nearby, a grandiose evergreen tree adorned with glittering ornaments stood alone, early christmas presents littering its skirt. you sat on the couch alongside your husband (god, it felt like the butterflies in your stomach were taking flight just thinking that he was yours now), the two of you wrapped in a blanket, boasting warm, steaming mugs of hot chocolate. changbin had just taken a large sip of it, resulting in a sweet mustache above his lip.

"baby, i didn't know you've been growing a mustache." you giggled. when he heard you, he gingerly placed a finger to his lip.

"oh." he wiped it off, his cheeks pink. you frowned at his flustered reaction.

"don't be embarrassed, binnie. you looked so cute, i was melting."

"so is your whipped cream. if you keep yapping, it'll sink into the chocolate and then it won't be worth it. at least let me have some." when you obliged, handing him your mug, he took the spoon from his, scooping up a big, kinda soggy marshmallow. "say ahh!"

you laughed, opening your mouth so he could slip the spoon in between your lips. you licked them afterwards, and changbin leaned more into you.

"this sucks. i'm so hungry, still." he whined, and you laughed, snuggling into him more.

"we should make christmas cookies, then." you suggested, and his beautiful brown eyes lit up. but then they dimmed as he thought for a second.

"but it's 8pm."

"and?" you asked, trying to get up so you could make your way to the kitchen but he pulled you back down, an arm wrapped around your waist. "c'mon, let's have a little fun. get in the christmas spirit!

changbin had so many excuses piled up. he was tired, he had practice the next day, it was getting late and the sugar would keep him up. but the moment he saw the excitement on your beautiful face all of his worries melted away. he stood up with you, the blanket still hanging on his shoulders.

"let's go. we have cookies to bake, don't we?"

you sat on the kitchen counter, swinging your legs as changbin was grabbing all the ingredients.

"get down from there, please. we can't cook this if your butt is all over the counter." like a gentleman, he extended a hand to help you down, and you jokingly swatted it away.

"you love my butt."

"i do."

"this got kinda weird." you got down, opening various cupboards to grab bowls and utensils. you then turned on some christmas music, adding to the atmosphere. "you ready?"

the next thirty minutes or so, you spent carefully mixing ingredients together to create you and changbin's masterpiece. as you mixed the wet and dry mixtures together with your spoon, changbin's steady hands kept the bowl in place.

"easy now. you want it to be put-together, but not clumpy. you can't under-mix it or over-mix it, because both of those won't end well, okay?" his tone was gentle, and he didn't seem like he was chiding you or being bossy, he was explaining it to you and letting you take the lead, knowing if you felt lost he was right there beside you. you watched him expertly roll out the dough as you piled up the holiday cookie cutters. after that, they were slipped into the oven, ready to cook to warm, golden-brown perfection so that you could ice them.

a few minutes after changbin set the timer, your shuffled christmas playlist reached the long-awaited moment. the sound of melodious bell chimes signaled the fated song, and changbin gave you a devious smile.

"i hope you're ready, because i'm so ready." you laughed out loud at his words as he flipped his wooden spoon around to use as a makeshift microphone. as mariah carey began to sing, he did too.

"i don't want a lot for christmas, there is just one thing i need...." he spun around, reaching out the "microphone" to you so you could continue.

"i don't care about the presents underneath the christmas tree..." you sang, matching his enthusiasm. changbin gave you a wide grin before grabbing your hand and twirling around a few times.

after your karaoke session came to an end, you were panting, your throat nearly hurt from the loud singing. you leaned against the doorframe as changbin ran a hand through his curly black hair.

"guess what?" he said, smiling as he pointed up. hung from the top of the doorframe was a few leaves of mistletoe, placed not-so-discreetly. the timing was impeccable, as nat king cole's beautiful rendition of "the christmas song" began to play. one hand went to your soft cheek and the other went to your hip.

the way your lips met his in a soft and sweet kiss felt almost natural. as if they were always destined to connect to yours, again and again. you wished to have this feeling, of the emotions pulsing through both of you creating something magical, seared into your temporal lobe. this was the man you were going to spend the rest of your life with! you felt giddy at the very idea of it. all your wishes had come true. you were with the love of your life, in this hub of joy and warmth, protected from the cold. safe and sound.

two months passed and it was valentine's day. love was in the air, and it was no different between you and your husband. every single part of the week leading up to it involved little gifts and sweet acts of service from your lover.

february 13th was not a good day for you. it had been relatively unlucky, and nothing seemed to go your way. you trudged home, shutting the door and flopping onto your shared bed. changbin was still at practice, so you had time to let out all your emotions.

after twenty minutes or so, you heard the front door open, a soft and loving voice carrying throughout the house.

"honey, are you home?" changbin asked, and you heard the soft thump of him setting his things down. you didn't want to worry him, so you responded.

"yeah, i'm in here." you replied rather weakly, and changbin noticed the discomfort in your voice almost immediately. he opened the door gently, not wanting to startle you. when he saw you laying down, misery tainting your features, he sat down beside you, pulling you into a soft hug.

the feeling of his arms around you was your breaking point. your walls collapsed just as easy as they had been built. you sobbed into changbin's shoulder the words just tumbling out of your mouth. you told him everything that went wrong and everything you felt - from the irritation and disappointment to the shame and fear, and he listened, a soft look of concern on his face.

"shh, don't cry." he murmured, wiping your tears away. "i'm sorry that you had a bad day. we all have them, there's nothing to be ashamed of. but don't worry, because you have me! your very own binnie who will fight off all the shitty days for you." you laughed softly at his words, and he gave you a dazzling smile when he heard your melodious laugh. "thank you, for telling me. we're married now, and your business is mine. if you're happy, i'm happy. if you're sad, i'm sad. if you're in the mood to kill someone, i'll probably try in convince you not to do it. but long story short, you deserve the world. the earth is blessed that you walk upon it. the waters are blessed to have touched your lips. the sky brags whenever you gaze up at it. you deserve the word, love, and i will gladly gift it to you."

when you leaned into his touch, whispering soft murmurs of "i love you" again and again, he chuckled softly, pressing an affectionate kiss to your forehead.

"you had such a rough day, baby. let's go take a bath, shall we? i'll go get it set up." he pulled away gently, waiting a second or two to make sure you didn't want him to stay. he went to the bathroom and got to work.

when he finished, he took your hand and led you in. the lights had been dimmed, most of the light emanating from red scented candles. an array of products were lined up neatly, and the water obviously had a bath bomb in it.

"here, allow me." changbin said, helping you undress. he neatly folded up your clothes and placed them on the kitchen counter. then, he gingerly unbuttoned his clothes and put them aside, too.

you sat with him in the warmth of the bath, his skin flush against yours. he rubbed your back, peppering your shoulder with soft and sweet kisses. nothing about this was sensual of any means. after the day you had endured, you were honestly relieved that energy had not been brought to this situation. this was simply your husband showing his overflowing devotion to you.

your eyelids fluttered shut as he washed your hair for you, carefully and expertly. he knew exactly what to do to give you the best results, as you'd taught him well. soft, soothing music drowned out the thoughts in your head, as did the comfortable silence with changbin.

after you had both dried off and gotten into your nightclothes, you climbed into bed, finding yourself immediately in changbin's warm arms, the place in this world where you felt truly at ease. he kissed you before dozing off. his final words, whispered softly into your waiting ear, were "tomorrow is another day."

and it was.

the next day, you found your home adorned with rose petals and your favorite foods and treats. seo changbin really was the match that kept your eternal flame going.

in the spring, the weather was lovely. flowers shot from the once frozen grown, basking in the sun's glory. cherry blossom petals floated down in a graceful dance from the trees. however, you were inside, curled up on a black leather couch, zoned out. from where you could see, changbin and the other members of 3racha were hard at work writing and composing a new song. eventually, you couldn't keep your eyelids from drooping shut, and you slumped over on the couch, sound asleep.

meanwhile, changbin was having a not-so-successful brainstorming session.

"i want to surprise yn, you know...they've been nothing short of lovely to me. and we can release it on the new album if it matches the concept, but if it doesn't, it'll be our song. private and for their ears only." he rambled. "but there's so much i want to express, and i can't pack it all in, or it'll end up being longer than twenty-four hours. ugh!"

jisung gave him a reassuring pat on the back.

"well...what are the things you want to tell them the most? there's got to be some division." changbin thought long and hard at jisung's words. he had such lovely memories with you, which were making it so fucking hard to choose just one.

"well...i love the idea of them growing old with me. it's something i've been dreaming about since we started dating." he finally said, a tad sheepish. "is that too cheesy?"

"not at all!" chan responded quickly. "that is one of the most beautiful things about love, i think. the daydreaming, the wishes...you're truly a romantic, changbin. and i love that being married has brought out this side of you."

"i think the poets might disagree. i can't even begin to elaborate on the vast complexity of my emotions, and they can do it in a flash." changbin mumbled. "i have all these feelings, and i hope i'm doing my best to make every day for them perfect. marriage is a commitment, and god, i'm fucking committed. i want to feel their hands in mine as we sit together under the sun in matching rocking chairs, our fingers wrinkled and knobby. because to me, they will be just as beautiful as they were when we were young."

chan and jisung stared at changbin, turned their heads to stare at each other, and burst out laughing.

"dude, do you hear yourself?" jisung asked in between giggles. "you're literally contradicting yourself as we speak. you just professed your love in the most beautiful way. i wish i could even begin to express that much powerful emotion, god."

"jisung, didn't you write volcano...and miserable...and alien?" chan implored, raising an eyebrow. jisung's cheeks turned an embarrassed rosy red, and he turned away, flustered.

"i guess...but that's not the point! what's really the point is that changbin needs to get his act together and write this song! no matter what you do, they're going to love it."

changbin let his emotions overtake him, and he wrote. he wrote so quickly and beautifully, every lyric laced with devotion and care. jisung and chan added their two cents now and then, but they let him take the lead. you were his muse, an alluring, angelic voice whispering sweet nothings in his ears, gifting him the motivation and inspiration he needed. when he finished his masterpiece, he stared at the lyrics. what if you didn't like them?

a voice sounded from behind him, drowsy and soft.

"honey, are you almost done?" you asked, and jisung and chan gave changbin a teasing smile before leaving the room, making some excuse that they were taking a conjoined bathroom break. changbin smiled at your ethereal face, still sleepy.

"i finished, yeah. want to hear the song?" he asked, as you got up from your resting place, sitting down beside him in jisung's now-empty chair. you nodded excitedly, and he took a deep breath, pressing play on the instrumental.

an upbeat melody sporting electric piano and drums began to play, working perfectly together. it sounded so sweet and so fun, like the inner melody that changbin kept hidden behind this rough exterior as a performer. and then he began to sing.

you'd heard him sing time and time again. but nothing compared to this moment. the raw emotion in his voice was singlehandedly the most beautiful thing you'd heard in a while. you felt tears prick your widened eyes when you realized the lyrics were about you.

"you've made this house a home."

"i was never a dreamer, until i met you."

the final lyric, "let's not make this too complicated, love me right now." signaled the end of the song. you stared at him, and abruptly burst into tears.

"please never stop writing songs about love, baby. your view of it is so refreshing and beautiful."

changbin's song, titled hands in mine, topped the charts.

this did not last. because now, changbin was sick. he'd been traveling and caught something he didn't even realize he had. this hit him hard, and he was now moping in bed, sniffles escaping his runny nose.

you were now determined to nurse him back to help, to the best of your abilities. you took a few days off of work so you could be by his side. carefully balancing a bowl of soup, you knocked on the door.

"can i come in?" he was silent, and you took that as a yes. you slid th door open, weaving through the room to sit beside him. he was sound asleep, the soft rise and fall of his chest imminent. you laughed quietly. the sound woke him up, as he blinked, eyes bleary with sleep, looking at you with a small pout.

"you...woke me up." he whined, and you pushed a few locks of curly black hair away from his forehead, placing the back of your hand there instead. he still had a pretty bad fever.

"you poor thing." you cooed, combing his hair with your hands. "you're burning up." when you gently pressed a damp towel to his forehead, he sighed at the contact.

"i can help myself, you know. you don't need to miss work for me." he said quietly, cheeks a deep red. when he attempted to grab the towel from your hands, you quickly moved it out of reach, resulting in changbin letting out a pitiful sound. "please. i can take care of myself and i'll be back in shape in no time. i've missed too many workouts!"

you shook your head.

"seo changbin, look at me. you have broken your back time and time again caring for me when nobody else had the energy to. i am not going to let you sit here and waste away in your sickness just because you have much too big of an ego to let me show you love you deserve. okay?" he was silent for a while, which implied his white flag of surrender. as he lifted the spoon to his mouth to consume your soup, you noticed his hand was shaking. you gave him a hug after he set it down, pressing your lips to his burning cheek.

"hey! i'm gonna get you sick." he tried to pull you off him, but you held on, until he relaxed, slumping back onto the bed. his head rested on your chest, and he sighed. "you're too good to me. i love you to the moon and back. as long as i am breathing and my heart is pumping blood, you will be the only person in my eyes. i intend you to be my last." and then he promptly fell asleep. leaving you dumbfounded.

so you held him tighter, until you drifted off into a dream-filled sleep. dreams of the eternity you were ready to spend with changbin.

summer arrived with a splash, literally. the sun was high, its rays beating down on you as you sat in a lounge chair in your swimsuit, tanning and reading a book your friend recommended to you. in the pool nearby, changbin rested his forearms against the tile, treading water as he looked up at you with a grin.

vacationing with him was always so fun.

"you look so good right now. the sun is kissing your skin when i wish i could." he giggled softly, and you smiled at his words. you were content sipping a cold drink as he swam, the blue water complimenting his tanned skin. and god, his arms looked really nice.

you had been with him for so long that busy schedules felt natural. you were used to long distance, long late night calls where you were practically begging him to get sleep, but he refused and regretted it horribly in the morning, airport arrivals and departures, all of that. it was nearly surreal that your husband was here and tangible.

"baby, come here real quick. i have to tell you something." changbin said suddenly, his mood changing. worry clouded your brain as you rushed over, crouching down beside him.

"is everything okay?" you asked him softly, and he flashed you that sneaky smile you knew all too well.

"better than okay."

and then he grabbed your hand, pulling you into the pool. you were met with the cool water soaking you from head to toe, before strong hands grabbed your waist, allowing you to pull your head up. changbin was laughing his ass off, and you splashed him rather harshly as a response.

"oh, i got you there! you looked so worried, babe, you were all like - 'oh no i hope my hubby is okay!' not even suspecting i'd toss you in. this is the fifth time you've fallen for this in all our time together, i'm disappointed." you sighed, theatrically massaging your temples to seem annoyed.

"y'know, this is why you're so short, binnie. if i can't trust you to not betray me like that, then how can the height gods?"

"hey!" he pouted, picking you up like you were light as a feather. the water probably helped. "you love me and all my inches."

you raised an eyebrow at his comment.

"and which inches are we implying here?" changbin's cheeks turned beet red as he doused you in a downpour of water.

"i didn't mean it like that, you perv!" he whined. you giggled, swimming over to him to rest a hand on his muscular forearm.

"i know, i know. want to dry off and walk along the beach?" you asked invitingly. he acted as if he even had to think about it, before clasping your hand in his and leading you out of the water. he grabbed two fluffy towels, handing one to you so you could dry off. after the sun aided you in this endeavor, you made your way to the beach.

the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky the colors of a beautiful fire as you walked, one foot after the other, hand-in-hand with changbin. the grains of sand felt soft against your bare feet, and the wind was blowing perfectly. pairing this with a cooler temperature now that nightfall was nearly upon you resulted in a perfect day.

you swung your entangled hands as you walked, pointing out various seashells and marine life. you just felt so overpowered with joy.

"can you believe it? we've been married for over half a year." you commented, eliciting a gasp from changbin. instead of responding with some loving comment that would make you all flustered and even more in love with him, he burst into song.

specifically, omg by newjeans. never a second of rest with this man.

on the eleventh day of august, changbin was awoken with a bone-crushing hug from you. you were excited and smiling, gushing until he groaned, sitting up to face you. your hands went to his cheeks, and you smiled wider than ever.

"happy birthday!" his face lit up at your words. he hugged you laughing, wrapping his arms around you. every birthday was another year lost to time, but he was happy that these years would now be spent time and time again by your side.

he watched you carefully make him a delicious breakfast with his favorite food. there were all different ingredients cooking and being mixed at once, and changbin basked in the sweetness that was your determination to make the perfect day for him. when you finished, you sat down with him, and he began eating, exclaiming in delight at the taste and complimenting you non-stop.

"what do you want to do today? it is your special day, after all. we can do whatever you want. this needs to be a day you'll love." you said, smiling as you took a bite of breakfast. changbin was silent for a bit, probably planning out a sudden itinerary for the day. you knew he was up to something the minute he gave you that damn look.

you were wearing gym clothes. this was his master plan, wasn't it? he was going to make you work out with him. you knew about your husband's love for exercise, but if you weren't feeling up to it, he wouldn't try and force it onto you. but today, on his special day, you essentially had no choice. however, it was lucky for you - you had a trained professional as your workout partner as opposed to someone who knew absolutely nothing.

it wasn't easy, but changbin was by your side every moment of the intense workout. some machines were easier for you to comprehend and then use than others, but at the end of the day, you much preferred watching changbin work out over anything.

the sheer focus when he exercised was something you'd really only seen when he was performing. you wished you had something even close to the level of perseverance that he boasted. finally, your sweaty husband completed his workout. in the car ride home, his hand never left yours, rubbing circles into your soft palm.

the rest of the day was simply lovely. you just spent it with changbin, not doing anything in particular but enjoying each other's presence. whenever he was around you, he seemed to have this radiance that came and went. it was a ray of calming sunshine that made you feel immensely better. whatever came at you, you'd face it together.

that night, when you sang happy birthday to changbin, as he was surrounded by his closest family and friends, he gave you a beautiful smile before blowing out his candles. he felt like was on top of the world, seeing your beauty as you held a cake you baked personally for him. he prayed this would be how all his birthdays were.

when the vibrant green hues of the trees faded to warm reds and oranges, mixed in with the occasional yellows and browns, you knew almost instantly that fall had arrived in all its glory. with fall came the autumn holidays, times of joy as the weather progressively became colder and colder, until the cycle of the seasons would repeat again.

the first of these important holidays was halloween. the weather was chilly in the mornings and night, something you honestly couldn't stand. you were curled up on the couch with changbin, a bowl of candy between you two as you watched some new horror movie. if you were being completely honest, it was scaring you, but you didn't want to admit that to changbin, who was frankly quite invested in the movie's plot.

"look at this dumbass, babe. he had two choices on places to hide. he could've hidden anywhere where the killer wasn't...the guy is literally taking out students at the university, if he just, i don't know, ran away, he'd be safe? but no...he had to hide in his girlfriend's dorm room. so stupid." changbin huffed, and you facepalmed. "mark my words, he's going to die before the end."

his incessant rambling was helping take your mind off the jumpscares, but you'd still visibly flinch if you weren't expecting one. you'd react by hiding your face in the crook of his neck. this was something that made changbin laugh loudly. however, he wasn't condescending about it or anything, which made you very comfortable. one of the many, many, many things about changbin that you loved was the harmony and tranquility he brought to your life.

you had loved seo changbin through the freezing cold and the burning heat, through the wilting and blooming of the flowers, through days and nights alike. and you had absolutely no intention to ever stop.

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